


Like They Do In Babylon

by zjofierose



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Alternate Universe - Dance, Angst with a Happy Ending, Dancer Shiro, Falling In Love, First Kiss, Kolivan teaches pointe, Light Angst, M/M, Miscommunication, Sweet, dancer keith
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-03
Updated: 2019-06-03
Packaged: 2020-04-07 03:10:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 27,608
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19076284
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zjofierose/pseuds/zjofierose
Summary: It's been nearly two years since Shiro's life-changing accident, the one that knocked him out of the corps at Galaxy Dance and derailed his career and his dream. He's been teaching ever since, and can feel himself stagnating. But what else is there for him? How can he find a way to love (dance) again?





	1. dance me to your beauty with a burning violin

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the Sheith Prompt Bang. This fic really did take a village, so unending thanks belong to Shionch, quazydellasue, BaronVonChop, and arcadenemesis for the advice, the betas, and the handholding. Many thanks as well to HWT for letting me scream at regular intervals. Dedicated to my artist, carter, and with so many apologies, because I was a total shit to work with on this. I'm sorry, bb!
> 
> The song you want to listen to on repeat for this fic is [here](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Ch6h278GEpA).

 “Got any plans for the fall break?”

Matt’s mouth is full of diner omelette and hash browns, and Shiro grimaces at him over his cup of tea.

“Chew with your mouth closed.” Matt rolls his eyes, but obliges. “And no, not really. Figured I’d spend some time trying to make a little headway on my piece.”

“Still the same thing?” Matt asks, and frowns sympathetically when Shiro sighs.

“It’s just not… working. I’ve changed the music, I’ve changed the steps, I’ve revised the vision… I just can’t get it to gel.” Shiro sets his cup down and pulls a hand through his hair in frustration. “I heard through the grapevine that there’s going to be a new choreographer position open with the corps next fall, and you know Lotor’s going to be gunning for it. I have to come up with something that’ll work.”

Matt sucks air in through his teeth.

“Choreographing for the company? Are you sure you’re ready for that, Shiro?”

“What the hell else am I supposed to do?” Shiro drops his hands back to the table, accidentally clattering his fork loudly across the edge of his plate. “Sorry. It’s just.”

“I know,” Matt says, and reaches over to rest a hand on Shiro’s fist. “I know, man, it’s fine. You don’t have to apologize to me.”

“I shouldn’t shout at you,” Shiro tells him, pulling his hand back to rub at his forehead, “I’m just frustrated. You know what Lotor’s latest stuff is like; it’s new, it’s different, it’s,” he gestures irritably, “ _innovative_.”

Matt snorts. “It’s post-modern and melodramatic is what it is. All show, no substance.”

“No,” Shiro forces himself to take another bite of his veggie burger, “that’s unfair. Yes, Lotor does have a taste for the eye-catching, but he’s got a gift. There’s a flow to his pieces, a mystery that is actually engaging.” He chews his burger listlessly. “I don’t know how I’m supposed to compete with that, honestly. Everything I come up with lately just feels stilted. Stiff.”

“Maybe you need to work on something else for a while? You’ve been working on this piece for months. Give it a rest. Let it breathe. Work on something completely different.”

“I can’t, Matt. I don’t have _time_ . If I want to be at all competitive for the role, I need to have this under my belt. It needs to be solid, and it needs to be good.” Shiro pushes his plate away. “I don’t know what’s wrong with me. I _used_ to be able to do this. I don’t know why I can’t get it right.”

Matt _hmms_. “Getting to be about that time of year, isn’t it?”

“What? Oh.” Shiro blinks at him. “I guess, yeah.”

Matt seems incredulous. “You hadn’t noticed?”

“Not really,” Shiro answers honestly. “I try not to think about it. I don’t want to be one of those people who can’t get past one shitty thing that happened, who lives their life stuck on a single event, and turns into some miserable mess once a year.”

Matt flags the waitress down. “Pie, please. Two slices of whatever’s the most decadent.”

“Matt…” Shiro protests, but Matt shakes his head sternly.

“Pie. First of all, you’re _not_ one of those people. It hasn’t even been two full years, and you’ve come so much further than a lot of folks would even after a decade.” His face is earnest, and filled with the Holt intensity that means that Shiro is not going to be able to convince him of anything other than what he’s decided. “Shiro, right after your accident, they weren’t sure you’d _live_. Or wake up. Much less go back to having a perfectly normal, active life, doing all the things that you used to do.” He thumps the table with a finger. “Secondly, it wasn’t just one thing, was it?”

“No,” Shiro sighs, and lets himself focus on the lightly steaming slice of pie that settles onto the table in front of him. “Raisin pie? I haven’t had that in years.”

“‘S what we got left this late at night,” the waitress shrugs.

“Thanks,” Matt says, beaming at her as he picks up a fork before returning his attention to Shiro. “No, it wasn’t one thing. It was a car accident that took your arm, broke your pelvis, fractured your ribs. It was months of PT and recovery. It was your fucking asshole of a boyfriend who…”

“Hey,” Shiro says half-heartedly, “Adam had signed up to be with a fellow dancer who shared his hopes, his dreams, and his life. Not to be nursemaid to a cripple with depression.”

“...your _fucking asshole of a boyfriend_ who dumped you just as soon as you could successfully get around on your own,” Matt continues without missing a beat, “and the company to which you’d given years of your life who then fired you.”

“If you’re trying to make me feel better, it’s not working.”

“What I’m saying is, you went through some shit, some real, honest-to-goodness, life-altering _shit_ , and not two years later, here you are considering going up for a job in the field you thought you’d never work in again with the company that rejected you. It’s okay that you’re frustrated - it’s incredible that you’re even in a position to _be_ frustrated about this particular thing. So cut yourself a little slack, man. Take a week or two off, go on a trip, get some space.”

“And let Lotor keep working on whatever piece he’s got up his sleeve to beat me for the position?” Shiro asks drily, “no thank you.”

“Christ,” Matt sighs, shoving a forkful of pie in his mouth before jabbing the fork at Shiro, “you are impossible, do you know that? _Impossible_.”

“I’ve heard that once or twice, yes,” Shiro answers, picking up the crust and breaking off a bite.

“At least get off the campus for a bit, okay?” Matt’s got his pleading face on, and Shiro rolls his eyes, but he’s weak for this, and Matt knows it. “Take some classes in the city, do something different. It’ll get you out of your head, maybe give you some new inspiration.”

“I don’t really…”

“Shiro,” Matt says, leaning in, “promise me. Break the routine. Take a risk. Do something unexpected, and let it feed you.”

“Okay, okay,” Shiro shoves the last piece of crust in his mouth and gestures to the waitress for the bill. “I will.”

“Promise?”

“Yeah,” Shiro punches Matt affectionately in the arm, “yeah, I promise.”

\--

It’s warm out, unseasonably so, and nothing at all like the night in late October two years ago when a car crash upended Shiro’s entire world. It was raining then, pouring really, and cold, the streets slick with water and headlights shining in the gloom. Tonight it’s hot and dry, dead leaves kicking up in the breeze that rushes down the streets of the metropolis he’s called home since he was fifteen.

8 p.m. has come and gone, but the sounds of the city echo still around him: children laughing, music playing, cars zipping past. The walk home after his weekly dinner with Matt is usually his favorite part of the evening, but tonight he feels restless, outside of himself. He catches himself stomping along without noticing the trees above him, the leaves beneath his feet, his face pulling itself into a scowl without his conscious intent.

Maybe there’s something to what Matt was saying, he begrudgingly admits as he pulls up short at a stoplight, waiting for the signal to change so he can cross. Last year at this time he was still in PT, still struggling with the daily challenge of learning the ins and outs of his new prosthetic, still figuring out what his apartment looked like with half its accustomed possessions gone. He couldn’t drink on account of the pain medication, so he’d marked the anniversary of his accident by going to bed early and lying awake until dawn.

This year, he’d decided to just ignore it, hoping to focus on work, on his piece, his students, but he’s feeling twitchy and irritable, an unsettled anger roiling just under his skin.

The walk sign changes and he crosses the street, absently staring at the lights shining out of the glass-sided building in front of him. Motion catches his eye as he nears the curb and he looks up at the windows of the second floor, the warm glow that illuminates them revealing their contents to the night.

It’s a class, a dance class, but that’s not what registers first: instead, for a singular moment, Shiro sees a man, a man with the refined strength of a dancer’s form, throwing up an arm with perfect extension and the exacting flair of experience. His shirt is red, his hair is black, his shoulder is bare, and Shiro is utterly riveted.

The image only lasts for a moment before the man drops the pose and crosses the room to correct a student, who Shiro can now see is just one of many in the class. The group is mostly older, mostly female, mostly in shades of teal and lavender. There are a few students who tick none of those boxes, but this is nonetheless clearly a weeknight hobby class.

Shiro is through the door at the base of the building and climbing the stairs before he knows what he’s doing. He pauses on the landing halfway between the first and second floors to rationalize it: Matt had suggested, not twenty minutes ago, that he take a non-Academy dance class, that he get out and live a little. Maybe Matt’s right. Maybe Shiro needs to unbend a little, get exposed to something not dressed in grey tights and black leotard, something a little less regimented.

He makes it to the correct classroom door by process of elimination, but as he reaches for the handle, it swings open and he’s suddenly caught in a swarm of middle-aged ladies chattering away as the class is dismissed. He catches the handle and holds it out of self-preservation, earning him grateful and appraising smiles from the departing dancers, but as the room empties out, his stomach drops - he’s too late. Of course he is. Even fate, even serendipity, likes to tease him.

“You coming in?”

Shiro startles where he’s still holding the door, staring forlornly after the last exiting student.

“Sorry?”

“You here for the next class?”  

Shiro turns to face the teacher, and the man’s mouth drops open in a silent _oh_ , his face crumpling into a frown before swiftly clearing to a professional neutral.

“I was hoping to be,” Shiro says cautiously, not quite sure what to make of the reaction. The teacher is young, probably in his early to mid-twenties, conventionally handsome but with a sharp edge of careless beauty that makes him fascinating. He’s smaller than Shiro, but clearly strong, with the wiry, compact frame of many professional male dancers. Shiro himself is a bit of an anomaly at his size, towering over all of the female dancers and a significant proportion of the rest. “What’s up next?”

“Did you sign in downstairs?”

“No,” Shiro says, “Sorry, I just… I saw the class from outside, and I thought I’d come in and see if I could join. I didn’t know what the procedure was.”

The man’s face softens slightly, his arms folding across his chest.

“The next class is a barre. It’s beginner, and 45 minutes.”

“Okay,” Shiro says easily, and the teacher’s eyebrow twitches slightly.

“If you want to join, you’ll need to go down to the front desk and sign in. And,” he eyes Shiro’s jeans, “you’ll probably want something a little less restricting of your movement.”

“Okay,” Shiro agrees, “how long do I have?”

“Class starts in ten minutes,” the teacher says, and turns his back, a clear dismissal. Shiro takes it, and heads for the door. He’ll get signed in, see if they’ve got anything else he can wear, and… well. See where it goes, he supposes. He’s not usually one for doing something on a whim, but, he asks himself fiercely, why not? Why shouldn’t he?

“Oh, and Shiro?” The teacher calls after him, and Shiro turns. “If you do the $45 guest membership, you can take unlimited classes for a week. It’s cheaper than the $20 per-class drop-in fee if you think you’ll come back.” The man’s voice is almost shy, and Shiro doesn’t quite know what to make of that, but he nods in acknowledgement.

“Thanks,” he says, and heads down the stairs.

\--

By the time he gets a week-long unlimited membership, a schedule of the classes, a complimentary tote bag, and a new pair of slightly-too-small leggings with the words _Marmora Dance_ printed on the leg, it’s been fifteen minutes and Shiro can’t shake the fear that class has started and he won’t be allowed in. He ducks into the men’s room long enough to tug on the leggings and then takes the stairs two at a time, skidding through the open doorway at the end of the hall.

This class is much smaller than the previous one, only Shiro and three other students, but it’s 9 p.m. on a Tuesday, so maybe that’s not surprising. The teacher looks him up and down, his mouth twitching briefly at the leggings, but carries on with his instructions without comment as Shiro finds a place at the back of the room.

“...and since you’re all familiar with the movements, we’ll just do our standard routine. I’m going to put on some music and join you. I’ll call out corrections as I see them, and you can raise your hand if you have something you’d like my help with, but let’s just take this time as a chance to check in with our bodies and wind down from the day.”

The class nods obediently, assuming preparatory positions as the teacher walks over to the boombox in the corner. A music device is already hooked up, but when he pushes play, the music that emerges is not the tinkling classical piano that Shiro expects, but rather a dirty slow jazz cover with a dropped beat. The students in front of him fall obediently into their first set of pliés, and Shiro’s body follows automatically even as his brain slides across the music choice and settles on the shape of the teacher where he stands at the front of the barre, lithesome and skilled.

“Loosen up,” the teacher says, and swivels his hips around the shape of a plié in a move that makes Shiro’s brain skip. “Dig deep.”

The three people ahead of him obediently sink even closer to the floor, rolling their heads and stretching their arms out long through the positions, and Shiro breathes deep with them as they inhale air and exhale vowels. It should be hokey, and he should feel self-conscious, but there’s something quiet about the small room, the darkness surrounding them on the two glass walls, and the intimacy of the small class size.

“That’s it,” the teacher says, his voice low and pleased in a way that raises the hair on Shiro’s arms, “and reverse.”

Shiro can feel himself immediately tense as he finds himself at the front of the line with no one to follow. He knows the sequence, sure, but he doesn’t know _how_ he’s supposed to be doing the steps, doesn’t know the interpretation, and he can’t grip on to the barre properly with his prosthetic anyway, and…

“Relax,” the teacher says from his elbow, voice wry, “this isn’t Galaxy Academy. Can I touch you?”

At Shiro’s nod, a warm hand comes to rest at the back of his neck. “Keep going, good. But I want you to close your eyes.”

Shiro obeys, resisting the urge to tighten up even more in an effort to compensate for the lack of balance that comes from the loss of his sight.

“Down,” the hand on his neck pushes ever so slightly, and Shiro deepens his bend, “good. Deep breath as you come up. Visualize that old thread from your solar plexus connected to the sky.”

Shiro’s arm arcs perfectly back beyond his head, face turning to his elbow as he lifts and opens his chest. The hand moves from his neck to float somewhere behind him.

“Good. Now, I want you to keep that tension between your chest and the sky, but I want you to relax everything from your ribs up until you find my hand.”

It takes Shiro a moment to parse the instruction and send up a silent prayer that he’s not about to fall on his ass in front of what might be the most beautiful man he’s ever seen, but he lets his neck and shoulders relax, allowing his arm to drop another inch, his head to tip back.

“More,” the voice comes from beside him, “you’re nearly there. You can do it.”

Shiro takes a deep breath and releases, dropping back like a blade of grass in a storm, and there, finally, is the touch of fingers against the crown of his head.

“Excellent,” the teacher says, and Shiro wants to shiver even as the blood streams to his head. “Come back up, slowly. Keep your body loose. Feel the music.”

His body feels weightless as he rises, the rushing of his blood in his ears all but drowning out the dropped beat thrumming from the speakers. There’s a fleeting touch on his shoulder and the teacher moves away, leaving Shiro to catch his breath along with the rhythm.

\--

The rest of the class passes in a blur, ending with a flourish and leaving Shiro’s muscles warm and heart warmer. The other students laugh and chatter and wipe their faces as they pull on sweatpants and jackets and shoes, readying themselves to go out into the wider world, to head home to family and pets and dwellings. Shiro thinks of his own small, quiet apartment and takes his time gathering his belongings.

He feels refreshed and shaken, simultaneously at ease and unmoored. He hangs back without even thinking, a half-formed thought in his mind that he can ask the teacher where he trained, what other classes he’s teaching, but looking around the room reveals that the man has already disappeared. Peering out into the darkness reveals nothing more than the normal flow of traffic and the occasional pedestrian.

“Keith?” the girl at the front desk says when he asks. “Oh yeah, he usually books it out of here pretty quick after the late classes. Gotta go home and feed his dog, I think.”

“Oh,” Shiro says, strangely disappointed, “can you tell me when he’s teaching again?”

“Oh yeah,” the girl’s hair is purple, her eyes dark, and she snaps her gum as she grabs a paper with a schedule printed on it. “Here,” she adds, making a series of circles with a red marker, “he’s one of our regulars. These are all the classes he’s teaching this month. You got the weekly trial pass, right?”

“Yeah.” Shiro looks at the multitude of red-marked squares. Some of them conflict with his own schedule, but the rest… “Yeah, I’m paid up for the next seven days.”

“Cool,” she smiles at him. “I’ll see you soon, then! Have a good night!”

“Yeah,” Shiro says, still staring at the paper and calculating how fast he can get over here from the Academy grounds. “Yeah, see you.”

\--

He lies awake for an hour and a half before he gets up, sets the kettle on to boil, and begins to move. He doesn’t need any music, he can hear the same thumping bass in the back of his mind, doesn’t need anything beyond the moonlight streaming through his windows and the roughness of his breath as he throws his body into movement.

The water boils and he pours it over the leaves, settling the metal lid in place to let them steep as he scrabbles at paper and pencil, dashing down forms, descriptions, short-handed notation of sequences that he sketches out across the narrow hardwood floors of his second-story living room.

By the time the sun rises he’s exhausted and covered in sweat, but satisfied. Pages of notes litter his small table, steps scratched out and new ones written in, combinations flowing across one sheet of paper and onto the next. It’s not what he’s meant to be working on, it won’t fit the bill for the competition, but he can’t bring himself to care. He hasn’t felt anything like this since the accident.

He calls in sick to the Academy, takes a short shower and a long nap, and heads to Marmora Dance.

 


	2. dance me through the panic till I'm gathered safely in

“Another?” Keith asks incredulously the next day as the rest of the class files out while Shiro settles onto one of the benches that line the far side of the classroom. Shiro just smiles dopily. He’s high on endorphins and adrenaline, and even though he can feel the burn in his thighs and core, he’s damned if he’s going to miss a single class Keith’s teaching. 

“Wanna get my money’s worth,” he says, stretching carefully and digging into his bag to fish out some moleskin for where a blister’s starting on his left heel. Teaching and directing has left him soft; two years ago he could have done a full day of classes without batting an eye, but he’s only just finished his third in a row here and he’s a mess of sweat and aches. 

“You’re a crazy person,” Keith says, but it’s without heat. “At least you seem to have the stamina for it.”

Shiro tries not to preen under the compliment, and only mostly succeeds. “I used to dance more intensively,” he says, and Keith nods. 

“Clearly.”

Shiro’s mouth opens to ask a question, but they’re interrupted by the first students clattering through the door, shedding umbrellas and raincoats and galoshes to reveal neon leggings and day-glo tank tops, so many drab reptiles shedding their outgrown skins to expose their newly reconstituted flesh and slick colors. It’s a modern class next, Shiro thinks - barre was first, then hip-hop, then contemporary, and now it’s the 8 p.m. modern class. Advanced level, if he recalls correctly, which will be good for him - his modern was always a little weak. 

He rubs his hands over his thighs and stands to stretch in earnest. 

\--

Keith has the next day off, but Shiro comes to Marmora anyway - he was mostly joking about wanting to get his money’s worth, but he does want to see if all of the teachers at Marmora are as good as Keith. There’s something about his instruction, about the way he demonstrates the steps with his whole self, that is just enrapturing and Shiro wants to know if that’s what he’s learned or just  _ him _ .

He takes three classes, one in the early morning before he goes to work, from a man named Ulaz. It’s good, Ulaz is a gifted teacher, but tap has never been so much Shiro’s thing, and while he would say that he enjoyed it, there’s none of the electricity that finds him during Keith’s classes, filling his senses and inspiring him to be better.

The second class, grabbed around lunch time when he has a two hour break in his schedule, is from a woman who looks too young to be teaching at all. She teaches acro-dance, wears a long, dip-dyed ponytail, and blows bubbles with her gum while demo-ing the positions, which makes Shiro shudder. In fairness, she is impressively creative in both her choreography and in her adaptability to the varying skill levels in her class, which leaves Shiro favorably disposed toward the overall Marmora pedagogy experience, but it’s still nothing like what he’s hoping for. 

Kolivan teaches the evening’s pointe class, and while he’s Keith’s polar opposite, Shiro likes him the best of the non-Keith teachers. He is exacting, takes no excuses, and enforces proper technique at the end of a whip-thin pointer. Shiro leaves his class exhausted, with bloody feet and a deep respect for Kolivan’s regular students, but no more inspired than he would have been after an Academy session. 

He goes home and soaks his feet in one basin, and his pointe shoes in another. 

\--

“Hey, Shiro.” Lotor’s voice from the doorway to his empty classroom makes Shiro’s shoulders go up, but he forces himself to relax as he turns to greet his colleague. “We missed you yesterday. Feeling any better?”

It’s not that the sympathetic smile on Lotor’s face is necessarily insincere, Shiro tells himself. It’s just the way that Lotor circles in on any hint of weakness, the way he’s always, consciously or otherwise, gleaning every possible piece of information to use for his own benefit, that rubs Shiro the wrong way. 

“I am, thanks,” Shiro answers, shoving his ballet slippers into his backpack and pulling on his sweatshirt. “Much.”

“Oh, good.” Lotor leans up against the doorframe, all black-clad elegance in his footed tights and turtleneck leotard, his long white hair in a perfect bun. “We all know how your students miss you when you’re out.”

_ Code for “I don’t want to have to cover your classes, so don’t do it again,” _ Shiro thinks, but smiles blandly back. “I’m sure they were thrilled to get some extra hours in with you,” he says, and Lotor picks idly at a fingernail. “Thank you for taking them for me.”

Shiro pulls his backpack onto his shoulders and switches the light off, but Lotor clearly isn’t done, because he hasn’t budged from his position blocking the exit at all. Shiro forces himself not to sigh audibly - all he wants to do is go meet Matt for some overly caloric diner food, then see if he can squeeze in a late class at Marmora before going home to take a hot shower and crash face-first into his bed. 

“Have you heard about the announcement?” Lotor asks, and Shiro shakes his head. Usually he hates playing Lotor’s information games, but the more he goes along with this, the sooner it will be over. 

“No,” Shiro tells him, “what announcement?”

“There’s going to be a choreography position open in the fall: choreographing for the company.” Lotor strokes an artfully stray piece of hair behind one perfectly curved ear. “The position will be filled by the winner of a choreography competition held at the end of the spring term.”

“Oh,” Shiro says, “they’ve made it official, then?”

Lotor peers at him curiously. “Honestly, Shiro, are you still sick? I thought you’d jump at the news.”

Shiro frowns at him. “Why? Because I used to write stuff for our classes when we were in the Academy?”

“Yes, idiot. And because you still do it.” Lotor folds his arms. “Come on, Shiro. Say you’ll enter. I need at least a modicum of competition if I’m going to feel like I’ve earned the position at all.” He smiles beatifically. 

“I don’t have anything that would be competitive, Lotor,” Shiro tells him, rolling his eyes. “You can win it. Have fun.” He starts to push past Lotor, but for as narrow and willowy as Lotor’s build is, he’s deceptively strong, and doesn’t budge. 

“Nonsense,” he says, “Shiro, I have known you for the last decade. You’ve got something tucked away somewhere that you can pull out and brush up. Or come up with something new, you’ve got six months. I don’t care. You’ve always been capable of being brilliant when you decide to be.” He waves a hand dismissively. “Besides, what else are you going to do with the rest of your career?  _ Teach _ ?” He snorts, and Shiro represses the urge to punch the disdainful look off Lotor’s face with the experience of years spent in each other’s orbit. 

“I’ll think about it,” Shiro says finally, when it’s clear that Lotor won’t let him pass otherwise. 

“Good.” Lotor pats his cheek. “See that you do.” He strides off down the hall, leaving Shiro to drag his hand down his face and pull the door behind him.

\--

“Again?” Keith’s voice is incredulous. “How do you even have time for this?”

“You make time for what you want,” Shiro answers absently, hanging up his coat. His whole body hurts after two days of Marmora classes plus a day of his usual instructional dancing. It’s a good hurt, though - he can feel his muscles remembering what it was like when he worked this hard every day. 

“Figures you’d have some bullshit inspirational motto,” Keith grumbles, eyes catching on how Shiro rubs absently at the join of his prosthetic. “Does that hurt?”

Shiro drops his hand like he’s been scalded. “It’s heavy,” he says shortly, “I’m supposed to keep the muscles around it strong to offset the weight.”

“And you haven’t been?”

“I have,” Shiro corrects, “but I’ve also been using it more than my body is used to this week.”

“Don’t you use it a lot normally?” Keith’s tone is neutral, but Shiro has that feeling again that Keith knows something Shiro doesn’t, and it irks him. “You’re at the Academy.”

It’s probably not too big a leap, considering his obvious training, but it still feels like something Keith knows for certain, and Shiro’s pretty sure he’s never said it. 

“I teach at the Academy,” he says, and takes in Keith’s look of surprise, “so I spend more time marking steps than dancing.” 

“You teach? I thought…” Keith trails off, frowning. 

“You thought?”

“You seemed like you’d be in the corps.” 

It’s a deflection, and Shiro doesn’t know what to make of it, but they’re interrupted by the ding of the timer that signals the start of class. Keith pushes off from the wall and walks to the center of the floor, clapping his hands to get everyone’s attention, and Shiro’s left to find his way to the barre with the other students. 

\--

It’s late when he gets home, sweaty and exhausted. He opens the door to his apartment, kicking off his shoes and flicking on the light. Black appears out of the hallway like the giant furry shadow he is, winding affectionately around Shiro’s ankles and attempting with a total lack of subtlety to guide Shiro toward the kitchen and the cat food. 

Shiro feeds Black and pets him for a minute, pausing to run himself a glass of water and drink it, and then to refill Black’s water dish while he’s at it. He can feel his muscles starting to stiffen, so he heads to the bathroom, peeling off his dance clothes as he goes. The time he’s been spending at Marmora has taken its toll on his routines, which means that the clothes he’s wearing are his last set of clean ones, so he detours past his tiny laundrette to shove an indiscriminate ball of leggings and shirts into the washer and add soap. 

The shower is hot enough to turn him red from stem to stern, just how he likes it. He can feel the heat sinking into his muscles, his joints, heating them and helping them to relax. He’d always known he enjoyed the heat, but recovery from his accident had given him a whole new appreciation for the efficacy of heat therapy on both his body and his feelings. His hot water bottle has seen him steadfastly through the past two years, and Shiro has no complaints about the durability of their relationship.

Shower done, he pulls on a clean pair of shorts and wanders upstairs to stow his shoes and gear for the night. It’s a nearly full moon and the room is full of light, the cool glow catching him at the top of the stairs and illuminating him in the full length mirrors that run the far wall. The effect is eerie, but also hauntingly beautiful, and he watches himself, mesmerized as he takes first one step, then another, his form bathed in the cold light that glints off his white forelock and metal arm.

When he was a child, Shiro’s mother had taken him to see the local production of Swan Lake. He’d been barely tall enough to see the stage over the people in front of him, and far too young to be reasonably expected to sit through the whole performance. His mother had admitted years later that she’d resigned herself ahead of time to leave at intermission, if not before, but instead Shiro had sat riveted through the entire three hours and change, completely enraptured with the sights unfolding on the stage. 

He remembers it, but barely: flashes of white against a dark and ominous background, the swelling music and the heartbreaking solo numbers. He remembers the dancers seemed to fly, leaping into the air and hovering, gravity loosing its death grip for a breath as they floated in the air.

His reflection now reminds him of those swans; ethereal and ghostly, moving silently against the trembling dark. He tosses his shoes to the side, moving his bare feet purposefully across the wooden floor as he watches himself glide, arms moving into preparation. 

Here, there is no need for a choreographer; the dance is within him. Here, there is no need for a teacher; he knows the steps. 

Alone, washed in silence and light, Shiro dances.


	3. lift me like an olive branch and be my homeward dove

“Only one class today?”

Shiro drags a hand across his face. It’s Thursday and he feels wrung out. Finals are coming up in less than a month, and the students are getting even more neurotic than usual, forcing him to demo combinations over and over until they’re getting it exactly right, showing up at his office hours and begging him for advice, for extra time. 

“I had to stay late to supervise a student project,” he says, bending over to touch his toes. The tone to start class goes off and he suppresses a groan, coming to a downward dog before pressing up into a handstand.

“Show-off,” Keith teases, and Shiro chuckles before dropping down to his feet. When he stands up, the room is still empty of other students. 

Keith looks at the clock, looks at Shiro. “We’ll give it another few minutes in case anyone else shows up. Go ahead and keep stretching.” 

Shiro gratefully obeys, pushing through a slow set of sun salutations and moving into an easy series of stretches at the barre, but by ten past, still no other students have arrived.

“Guess it’s just me,” Shiro says bashfully, “do you want to knock off early?”

Keith shakes his head quickly. “No, you’ve paid for classes. We should do a class.”

“Pretty sure I’ve already more than gotten my money’s worth this week,” Shiro laughs, rubbing at his neck. “I’ll understand if you just want to take off an hour early.”

“No.” Keith’s tone is firm, but his face calculating. “But. What if we did something other than barre?”

“Sure.” Shiro shrugs. He hasn’t had a class with Keith be anything less than thrilling yet. “I’m game.”

Keith’s face goes speculative, and Shiro has to catch his breath. “How’s your tango?”

“Non-existent,” Shiro admits, and it takes all he has to stand still as Keith flips to a song on his ipod and advances toward Shiro, holding out his arms in open invitation.

“Take my hands,” Keith tells him, and Shiro is powerless to disobey. Keith’s smile is warm and disarming. “We’re just going to walk, first. Wait for the beat, and follow me.”

_ I’d follow you anywhere _ , Shiro manages to not say, and steps after Keith without hesitation.

\--

“Alright,” Keith says approvingly after they’ve circled the room twice, “you’re doing well. Let’s kick this up a notch.” He steps in close and wraps an arm around Shiro’s neck. “You know how, with some ballroom dance, you want to keep that open space between your chests, and keep your arms strong and separate?”

Shiro nods, wordless at the sudden scent of Keith so close to him, smelling of sweat and dust and what must be his shampoo.

“Tango is different.” Keith takes Shiro’s arm and wraps it around his own waist, pulling it tight around his hips. “Your job is to hang on to me real tight, so that I can show off.” He grins smugly, and Shiro can’t help but laugh.

“I can do that,” he promises, and Keith’s smile is a little slower this time, a little deeper, and Shiro feels his heart hiccup in his chest. 

“Good. So,” Keith takes Shiro’s other hand in his own, “we’re going to be moving mostly in the same plane - when I step, follow, and if I push in close, lift. Got it?”

“Yeah,” Shiro breathes, and Keith releases him for a heartbeat that leaves Shiro cold and alone in the warmth of the room as Keith grabs for his music player and clicks into a new song. 

“Ready?” It’s a rhetorical question, because Keith kicks off with the first downbeat, stepping gracefully backward with Shiro following until Keith pauses, holding tight to Shiro’s arms as he stretches one leg out impossibly long behind him. “Down,” he murmurs, “I need you to take a lot of my weight for the full extension, good. Now pull me up.”

Shiro does, trying to be mindful of timing it to the music, and Keith beams when he reaches the top, kicking high to one side and then to the other, stepping gracefully around Shiro’s bent knee. 

“Excellent,” he says, “now, come with me.”

Shiro follows him in a tight circle around the room, hands in ballroom position as Keith kicks his feet out high, turning his head side to side as he goes, his movements sharp and clean. “Pause,” he whispers, and Shiro clutches him tight as he kicks again. His hands move up to catche him about the waist when Keith says, “and lift,” hefting Keith up into a double bent knee pose with his arms high, then lowering him down his own body until Keith is in a perfect swan dive, his long fingers elegantly extended and his beautiful neck craned to the side. 

Shiro pulls him back up as the music shifts tempo, spinning Keith into and out of his arms, then dipping him deeply backward and dropping his hold when Keith lets go, letting Keith catch himself on Shiro’s outstretched hands an inch from the floor.

“You’re good at this,” Keith tells him, his face alight with pleasure, and Shiro nearly chokes on his tongue at the look of him pink-cheeked and happy as they take off again, swirling around the room to the intoxicating pulse of the music.

“Just because I’ve never danced it doesn’t mean I’ve never seen it,” Shiro gathers his wits enough to answer, eyebrow raised as he leans out one knee for Keith to kick around before switching feet and bending into the other. 

“My apologies,” Keith chuckles as Shiro stands and pulls him in tight, lifting him up as Keith creates another perfect form, the line broken by his face laughing down at Shiro. “I had no idea watching others dance was a way to learn to do it. You’re a natural.”

“Only because I’m dancing with you,” Shiro tells him, trying not to think of the utter failure of his ballroom classes with Adam, and Keith’s eyes go soft in the corners. “You make everything easy.”

Keith snorts even as he pulls Shiro around into a series of tight turns, hoisting himself on Shiro’s shoulders in order to slide sinfully down his front into a deep split. “Pretty sure that’s the first time I’ve ever been told that,” he says, and Shiro doesn’t comment, just hauls him back up from the floor and into his arms. 

The shape of Keith’s body against his own is distracting, but nothing can top the way that it feels to move together, Keith’s chest pressed hard against his side, Keith’s small but strong hand in his own as they flow to the music. Shiro feels like he’s leaping off a cliff, like he’s flinging himself into freefall with no net, and he can’t even bring himself to care.

“Lift,” Keith says, and Shiro grabs his hips and pushes as Keith kicks backward, setting him down only to take two steps and hear, “again.” Shiro complies, pushing Keith straight up this time, catching on to the intended move as Keith swings himself backward over Shiro’s shoulder, trusting Shiro to catch him under the arm and spin them both. Keith splays himself out over Shiro’s shoulders into an arched spreadeagle before eeling his way down Shiro’s back until he swings headfirst between Shiro’s legs as the music crescendos to its finale.

Shiro’s hands are there to catch him, to pull him up, to curl one around his head and the other around his waist as Keith presses their heaving chests together. The last notes of the music echo around them as their eyes lock, and Shiro can see galaxies reflected in Keith’s dark gaze. The moment hangs suspended, a drop of amber in an unending moment, then bursts around them as a class down the hall dismisses with a bang of the door and the chatter of students.

Keith pushes off from Shiro’s chest, kicking off his heels and looking studiously away as they put a professional distance between them. 

\--

“Why?” Keith asks after class, pulling on his jacket, not meeting Shiro’s eyes as Shiro laces up his shoes. 

Shiro blows out a breath. “Do you want the long answer or the short one?”

“I want whichever answer you’re willing to give me.”

“Let me take you to dinner,” Shiro says without thinking, then blushes hard. “I mean, there’s a diner nearby I go to a lot - I haven’t eaten yet, and you probably haven’t either. If you wanted to come with me, I’d be happy to tell you.”

Keith looks at him appraisingly. “I don’t usually socialize with my students,” he says, and Shiro nods.

“It’s a good policy,” Shiro says honestly, “I don’t with mine either. I’m sorry if I made you uncomfortable.”

“A little different, given some of yours are minors,” Keith says, and eyes Shiro again. “Alright, I’ll make an exception. But you’re buying, and I want a milkshake and chili fries.”

“Done,” Shiro beams, gathering up his coat and bag so he can follow Keith to the door. “Any milkshake you like.”

\--

“So,” Keith says around a mouthful of french fries, “thirteen classes in four days. Why?”

Shiro laughs in surprise, wiping his mouth on a paper napkin. 

“You don’t beat around the bush, huh?”

Keith shrugs, stabbing another bite of cheesy fries covered in chili into his mouth. There’s a smear of sauce next to his mouth, and Shiro wants to reach out and wipe it away. “Never had a lot of patience for small talk.”

“Well,” Shiro exhales, suddenly nervous and unable to explain why. It’s not unusual to find a teacher that you resonate with, and work with them closely, and while he has attended all of Keith’s classes, he’s tried others too. If he were making Keith uncomfortable with his newfound dedication, Keith would presumably not be here with him right now, so. “My friend Matt told me that I was in a rut, and that it’d do me good to take some classes away from the Academy.” Shiro spreads his hands and smiles, “so I’m taking some classes away from the Academy.”

“You said the first night that you saw it through the window,” Keith says thoughtfully, and Shiro thinks,  _ saw  _ you  _ through the window _ , but doesn’t correct him. 

“Matt and I have dinner once a week. I was on my way home from that when I noticed your class.”

Keith raises an eyebrow. “Impulsive,” he observes, but with no hint of judgment in his tone.

“It seemed like serendipity,” Shiro answers honestly. “And then taking the class felt so good, like…”

“Like,” Keith prompts gently when Shiro trails off, and Shiro shakes his head.

“Like dancing hasn’t felt since my accident,” he says finally, and Keith nods in understanding, taking a long slurp from his strawberry-peanut butter milkshake.

“So Matt was right,” Keith says with a twinkle in his eye, and laughs when Shiro groans theatrically.

“God, he’s never going to let me live it down, either.” He laughs. “Yes, Matt was right. Marmora Dance is different than what I’m used to, and you,” he points at Keith with his straw, “are an excellent teacher.”

Keith ducks his head in clear embarrassment, his cheeks faintly pink, and Shiro nearly chokes on a pickle at how the sudden display of vulnerability clutches at his heart. 

“Matt Holt?” The deflection is clear, but Shiro’s too surprised to push past it. 

“How do you know Matt Holt?” Shiro asks, biting into a curly fry. 

“I don’t,” Keith smears the back of his hand across his mouth, moving the smudge of chili further across his cheek. “I know his sister, Pidge.”

“Oh, Katie?” Shiro laughs. That makes more sense, except… he frowns. 

“Wait, okay, so you know the Holts, but… why did you assume that I would? There are lots of guys named Matt in the world; why would you think you knew the one I meant?” 

Keith looks around shiftily, shoveling his mouth full of chili fries so he doesn’t have to answer. 

Shiro thinks about it, taking another long pull of his shake before continuing. “And you thought I was in the corps, not teaching.” He squints, feeling some pieces fall together. “And that first night… you knew my name. Did you… do you know me?”

Keith has the good grace to look abashed, but he doesn’t deny it.  “We’d never officially met, if that’s what you mean,” he answers, fiddling with his fork now that his supply of fries is depleted. 

“But you knew who I was,” Shiro says, and it crests over him like a wave, understanding and embarrassment in one crashing sensation, “were you at the Academy?” His mood falls immediately at the shuttered look that appears on Keith’s face, but he forces himself to finish his thought regardless. “...why haven’t I ever seen you there?”

His straw is enough of a distraction for Keith to fiddle with for a long moment before he sighs. “I was a couple years behind you,” he says finally, “Pidge and I trained together; she’s a little younger than I am, but we were in the same Advanced Contemporary workshop, and we figured out we liked working together.”

“Why don’t I remember you?” Shiro is certain, absolutely certain, that he’d remember Keith.

“I don’t know?” Keith shrugs. “Like I said, we never met. You know how it is, they keep the junior dancers pretty segregated. I think you’d just graduated into the corps when I started; we would come watch you all practice or perform sometimes, but you wouldn’t have had any reason to see or know me.”

Shiro frowns. It’s true, what Keith is saying- he wasn’t teaching before his accident, and dancing in the corps was all-consuming - along with his relationship with Adam, his life had been more than full. He hadn’t exactly been dropping in on junior classes out of boredom. Still, he’s hit with a wave of unaccountable sadness, as though there’s something here that he’s missed. A chance, an opportunity, he’s not sure what, but it feels like it’s slipped through his grasp without his knowing, and he regrets the loss.

“Why aren’t you still there, Keith?” He keeps his tone even, watches as Keith’s fingers twist and his eyes stay glued to his plate. “You’re more than good enough.”

Keith gives a short bark of a laugh. “Well, unfortunately talent is very rarely enough, isn’t it? Didn’t take me too long to get kicked out.” The sound of his voice makes Shiro’s heart hurt, and he watches as Keith takes a deep breath, forcibly relaxing, and looking up with a smile that doesn’t reach his eyes. “Besides, I love working at Marmora. It all worked out in the end.”

It’s unmistakably a cue to change the subject, and Shiro gives in gracefully as Keith slurps determinedly for the last of his milkshake. He waves for the check, and waits till Keith has exhausted the very dregs at the bottom of his glass.

“So, I hear you have a dog?” he says, and watches Keith’s whole face light up.

\--

Shiro buys the unlimited monthly pass to Marmora Dance, and settles into a schedule of attending a class a day, two if he can swing it and Keith’s teaching back-to-backs. It’s grueling, and he drags himself through finals week by sheer determination, the bags under his eyes as severe as those of his students. 

He can feel the difference it makes in him, though, and it keeps him going. His body is stronger, more flexible. His extensions are fuller, his lines better. He’s always been an exceptional technical dancer, powerful and explosive, his footwork impeccable and his timing perfect, but this… this is different. Working at Marmora allows him the space to refine what he can already do, gives him a low-pressure atmosphere in which to re-discover the sheer joy of physicality that he honestly had feared he’d lost forever when he’d woken up in the hospital and tried to lift his hand. Working with Keith brings him a breathless inspiration he’s never felt before, a passion to his movements he’s never yet reached.

His physical therapist is pleased. His regular therapist is thrilled. Matt is over the moon. Even Iverson, Dean of the Academy, comments that Shiro’s “looking less like shit these days.” 

His choreography is still stuck. 

 


	4. let me see your beauty when the witnesses are gone

It’s the week between Christmas and New Year’s, and the Academy is closed for the holidays. Marmora Dance is likewise largely dead: Classes have been reduced on account of teachers and students both being out of town, and Kolivan’s manning the desk so Acxa can meet her girlfriend’s parents for the first time. 

The last class of the night was just him and Keith and one other student, practicing lifts. It had gone well, for the most part: Shiro’s an experienced base, while the other student had never been lifted, so Keith had made Shiro demo with him, then practice lifting Naima over and over so that she could get comfortable with the motion and the timing of it. She picked it up quickly, and they’d had time to try several variations before calling it a night. 

Shiro had retired to the changing room to pull on his street clothes over his leggings and undershirt, but had paused to run his prosthetic through a series of routine evaluations- it had begun making a clicking noise near the end of class, and he wants to make sure that there’s nothing out of place before he takes it out in the cold. 

If, after he runs through the exercises, he buries his face in his sweatshirt and lets himself sink into the memory of grasping Keith’s hips in his hands to raise Keith’s body above his head, his long legs draping artfully down Shiro’s torso, that’s no one’s business but his own.

The light in the far classroom is still on when Shiro emerges from the dressing room, and he moves toward it like a moth, thinking to flip it off so that Kolivan doesn’t have to come upstairs and do it when he locks up. He wanders down the hallway to the closed door, but doesn’t register the music until his hand is on the knob. He pauses, looking through the window, and stops dead. 

The music is low, but clearly audible, something violently classical with a cacophony of strings and far too fast for what Keith is dancing, but that stops him not at all. It takes Shiro a second of staring with his mouth open to recognize the steps as a mash-up of choreography from the Firebird and Rite of Spring, which, of course, he thinks, but  _ gods _ , he’s never seen it like this. Keith is dancing with total abandon, his body rising and falling as he pushes up in the crimson pointe shoes Shiro’s never seen him wear, arcing as he throws himself into leaps that seem weightless, leaving him suspended in the air, his arms reaching and neck arched. 

He is, without a doubt, the most incredible thing Shiro’s ever laid eyes on.

The music shifts to a maudlin waltz with pipes and a deep drum, and Keith slides seamlessly into something modern and haunting, his eyes closed and face relaxed as he moves through forms like a man compelled. 

Shiro drops his bag without looking, fishing in his jacket for paper and pencil, pressing it to the door and scribbling furiously.

\--

Shiro works on it for three weeks. Three weeks of late nights, of teaching full days, of taking classes at Marmora, of going home to run through step combinations until the stars are fading from the sky, then sleeping briefly and doing it all again. 

It’s completely unlike what he was working on before. It’s completely unlike anything he’s worked on, ever - it’s not a specific style, but moves through them, beginning with careful, classical, pointe work and sliding into modern before resolving into a contemporary finale. 

“It looks like a mess,” Matt says dubiously when Shiro shows him his notes in their shared office two weeks in. “Also, it’s stupid long. Where are you going to find someone with the stamina to dance something like this?”

“I’ve got someone in mind,” Shiro says absently, and only looks up when Matt remains uncharacteristicly silent. “What?”

Matt stares at him, a smile slowly blooming on his face. “You’ve met someone!” he crows, and Shiro shakes his head emphatically. 

“No, it’s not like that,” he pulls the paper back from Matt’s eager fingers before it can get smudged. “He’s one of the teachers at Marmora Dance.”

“Marmora Dance?” 

Shiro realizes his strategic error too late. “Yeah. It’s uh,” he rubs awkwardly at his hair. “It’s a dance studio across town.”

Matt pushes his chair back on its legs, balancing perfectly as he pins Shiro with his stare and ticks off points on his fingers. “Let me get this straight: you have been dancing,” he holds up one finger, “at a place other than Galaxy Academy,” he holds up a second, “and,” he raises a third, “you’ve been doing it long enough to meet a hot teacher that you’ve got an artistic crush on.”

Shiro rolls his eyes. “Yes, I’ve been dancing somewhere else. But Keith and I, we’re not like that…”

“ _ Keith _ ,” Matt says raptly, clasping his hands together as Pidge slams the door to the room open, forcing Matt to pinwheel his arms so he can drop the chair back to the floor. “So good to know the name of my future brother-in-law!”

“Shiro’s getting married?” Pidge grins like a shark, all teeth and evil intent, and Shiro lets his head drop to his arms as she dashes across the room and yanks the piece of paper from his hand. “Oh. I thought this was going to be a phone number.” She pauses, turning it over. “What  _ is  _ this?”

“Shiro’s magnum opus,” Matt answers gleefully, “which he’s composing for his new boyfriend Keith to dance.”

“Keith?” Pidge’s voice is surprised, and Shiro raises his head. “Wait, Keith Kogane?”

“Uh,” Shiro says eloquently, caught in the sudden realization that he doesn’t actually know Keith’s last name. 

“This is a hot mess, Shiro.” Pidge squints at it further. “But,” she adds grudgingly, “if anyone could pull it off, it’d be him.”

Shiro tries not to nod too eagerly in agreement, but judging from the looks on both their faces, he fails. “Yeah, I really think he can…”

“Oh, you’ve got it bad,” Pidge cuts him off, laughing, and he uses her distraction to snatch the paper back, rising and grabbing his bag. 

“If you two chuckleheads have nothing further to add,” he says, slipping on his jacket. He’s running late for Keith’s intermediate modern class. 

“Oh, Shiro,” Matt says, sliding to his knees in front of his sister and gazing at her soulfully. “I’ve never seen such original choreography in my entire life. Please pick me to be your muse!”

Pidge wraps an arm around Matt’s shoulders, tipping him back even as he bats his eyes at her. “Don’t worry, Keith. I’ll never let anyone else dance the steps I wrote for you.”

It’s an inaccurately low fake voice, Shiro thinks as he lets the door bang behind him, cutting off the peals of giggles from the Holt siblings, but he’ll admit she’s got his diction down to a scary degree.

He has a brief flash of Pidge and Keith dancing, her tiny, wiry frame and unmatchable energy with his skill and stamina, and lets his face fall into a frown. They would’ve been a powerhouse couple, could still be, if Keith were still here. So why isn’t he?

\--

Keith holds the pages in his hand, skimming them over. Shiro can see his mind working furiously, the sketchy step notations in front of him taking shape in his mind. 

“This is a mess,” he says finally, and Shiro hangs his head, but Keith continues. “...but it’s a really interesting idea. I can see how it would work.”

Shiro can’t help the eagerness in his voice when he says, “yeah? You think so?”

“Yeah,” Keith catches his eye and smiles, and warmth fills Shiro’s face. Keith’s beautiful in the late morning sun. It’s a rare Sunday morning where none of the other regulars have shown up for Keith’s morning barre, and Shiro seized the opportunity before he could talk himself out of it. “I mean, you’ll have to work some of it out with whomever you get to dance it, depending on what their strengths are, but you know that.”

“I was...” Keith looks at him curiously, and Shiro clears his throat. “I was hoping you’d dance it for me?”

A multitude of expressions flash across Keith’s face in an instant, and he looks at the papers in his hand again, pursing his lips. His eyebrows come together, and Shiro can see him re-evaluating it with the thought of how it would feel to dance it in mind. 

“What’s it for?” Keith asks finally, and Shiro swallows hard. 

“There’s a job opening for a choreographer at the Galaxy Dance Company and Academy...”

“No.” The answer is flat and firm, and Shiro’s eyebrows fly up in surprise. “I’m sorry, Shiro, but I cut my ties with Galaxy Academy a long time ago, and I’m not interested in revisiting them.” He hands the pages back to Shiro. “It looks really interesting, but you’ll have to find someone else.”

“Okay.” Shiro shuffles the pages, pausing as he catches on a step sequence he still feels unsure of. “I understand. But,” he stands up and holds the sheet out to Keith, indicating the place on the page. “Maybe you could help me workshop it a little?” He marks the steps, feeling Keith’s eyes on him. “I just feel like this part here isn’t working. It doesn’t flow with what’s around it.”

Keith puts a finger to his mouth, absently sketching the steps with his feet. 

“I don’t think the problem is there, actually,” he says, and flips the switch on the sound system. “You don’t have music for this yet, right?” 

Shiro shakes his head, and smiles as he hears the lilting sounds of what he recognizes as one of Keith’s favorite jazz remixes fill the room. 

“I don’t think the problem is there,” Keith says again, setting the paper on the top of the piano in the corner before dancing several steps into the room. “I think it’s the sequence before that- what about this, instead?”

He launches his body into the air, limbs floating into perfect position, gliding through a slightly altered version of Shiro’s original concept. Shiro’s heart catches in his throat; it’s perfect. He nods furiously, and Keith frowns in thought.

“Or even… what about this?” he says, almost to himself, and then he begins to dance.

\--

“Don’t get that look on your face, Shiro,” Keith warns him later over milkshakes at the diner. “I’m not dancing this for you.”

“But  _ Keith _ ,” Shiro says, utterly uncaring that his voice is full of pleading, “you dance it so  _ well _ .”

“No,” Keith says firmly, shoving a pickle at him. “Find someone else. I’m not dancing for the Academy.”

“Okay,” Shiro agrees easily, “but what if you just helped me with it? Just so I can get it to the point that I can hand it off to someone else?” He lets his mouth fall sadly. “I’ve been trying so hard to write something good, for so long, and nothing has worked. I just want a chance to show them all what I can do, and nothing has made me feel as inspired or as creative as working with you.” 

The bitterness and longing is more apparent in his tone than he’d really meant, but it’s all true. He’s been trying; he’s been trying  _ so hard _ , and Keith is the first bit of luck he’s had. 

Keith’s gaze softens as he looks at Shiro across the table. Shiro barely knows this man, he thinks, silent as Keith’s eyes hold his own, but he’s so quickly become such a huge part of Shiro’s life, of what makes him feel good. It’s surreal, really, and Shiro doesn’t want to think about it too closely for fear of jinxing whatever stroke of fortune or fate is making this work.

“Alright,” Keith says finally, his face hesitant but his voice strong. “I’ll work on it with you. But only,” he waves his fork menacingly at Shiro, “until you’re ready to share it with someone else. You’ll need to do the final fine-tuning with your real dancer, okay?”

“Okay,” Shiro nods eagerly, “thanks, Keith, I really… I just… it means a lot to me,” he finishes. “Thank you.”

Keith smiles, and slurps his milkshake. “I don’t promise to be nice,” he says, and Shiro snorts, “that thing is a mess. But.” He shrugs, and Shiro’s heart skips in his chest, “I think there’s something beautiful in it.”

Shiro doesn’t say,  _ I think there’s something beautiful in you _ .

\--

Shiro answers the door shirtless and with his hair still wet from his shower, and Keith raises a slow eyebrow at him from where he stands on the steps. 

“Nice place,” he says, not commenting on the drip that falls from Shiro’s fringe to splat between his bare feet. 

“It’s not much, but it has wood floors and I’m above the garage, so no neighbors complain about jumps.” Keith grins, and Shiro steps back to let him in the door. “Come on in. Make yourself at home, I’m gonna just go…” he jerks a thumb in the direction of the single bedroom.

“Yeah,” Keith says, swinging his bag down onto Shiro’s battered old coffee table, “go ahead. I’ll be fine.”

When Shiro emerges five minutes later, fully clothed and with his hair now damp instead of dripping, Keith is on the far side of the room examining a bookshelf full of pictures. Shiro bites his lip, watching as Keith lifts one up to examine it before replacing it carefully and moving on to the next. 

“Only child?” Keith asks, holding the photo of Shiro after his first dance competition. He’s five years old, missing a tooth and holding a trophy as tall as he is. His mother smiles to his right, kneeling beside him, and his grandfather stands beaming to his left, hand on Shiro’s tiny shoulder. 

“Yeah,” Shiro rubs at the back of his head. “My dad actually died before I was born, so my mom raised me with my grandfather, really.”

Keith hums thoughtfully. “You look just like her.” He sets the photo down and moves on to the next. “Is this you and her and an aunt?”

Shiro laughs. “Yeah, I do sometimes wish I looked more like my dad, because it would be nice… not having known him, I guess it would be nice to have  _ something  _ of him, but genetics are fickle. And no, that’s my mom’s girlfriend. They got married a few years ago, they live upstate.”

“Do you like her?” Keith’s tone is curious, and Shiro wonders about his own background. Keith has an air of fierce independence to him, and though Shiro assumes based on appearance that there’s some kind of familial connection between most, if not all, of the members of Marmora Dance, that doesn’t mean it’s close or even long-standing. 

“Yeah, Naomi’s great. They’ve been together ten years, and are kind of disgustingly in love.” 

“Hmm.” Keith moves on, picking up the small photo on the bottom shelf. “I remember him.”

“Yeah,” Shiro crosses the room to stand next to Keith and peer down at the photo. It’s in a small brass frame that needs to be polished, but Shiro and Adam are still easily recognizable in a string of photobooth pictures that capture them laughing and clowning around. “Adam. We were together for a while.”

“Not anymore?” Keith’s tone is still idle curiosity, but Shiro can feel where his body has tensed beside him.

“No,” Shiro answers, and tries not to get distracted by the way Keith exhales in what Shiro wants to read as relief. “We broke up a few months after my accident.”

“Wait,” Keith’s eyebrows draw down in a sudden scowl, “are you saying he dumped you while you were recovering from a major injury?” Keith turns to stare up at Shiro, his face shocked and full of indignation.

“No,” Shiro says firmly, “he stayed with me through the initial recovery, and he was very supportive. It was just that the emotional toll of it all revealed some pre-existing issues between us, and the relationship couldn’t recover.”

“What kinda utter dick…” Keith mutters, and Shiro squashes a smile. “Why do you keep it out?”

Shiro reaches out to take the photo from Keith’s fingers and return it to the bottom shelf. “Adam was an important part of my life for several years. Even if we broke up, I don’t want to erase him from my story. We were friends first, and he brought me a lot of joy.”

Keith snorts. “Very enlightened of you.”

Shiro smiles beatifically and spreads his arms. “I try.”

Keith pinches him hard on the rib, and Shiro yelps, swiping playfully at Keith as he dodges over to grab his shoes. “God, you’re so middle-aged. Is that why you teach now? Dancing was too exciting for your life balance?”

It’s a joke, but it lands a little too close to home, and it must show on Shiro’s face, because Keith crosses back over to him immediately, reaching out to grip his elbow. 

“Hey, I’m sorry. I was kidding. I didn’t mean to upset you.”

Shiro forces himself to take a breath and smile, letting the hurt fade away. “I know. It’s okay. It’s just a little bit of a sore spot,” he says, pulling on his own shoes and taking Keith’s arm to guide him toward the stairs.

“Wow,” Keith says in awe, looking around as they reach the top, “how the hell did you get an apartment like this? A whole room just to dance?”

“A guy who was a couple years ahead of me in the Academy got a job overseas right as I graduated and joined the corps.” Shiro laughs. “I guess the landlord was happy to not have to do a bunch of searching for a new tenant; the guy basically bequeathed it to me, all I had to do was produce the deposit.”

Keith takes a running leap and slides across the room on his knees, smacking into the far wall and falling onto his back laughing. “God,” he says between giggles, and Shiro focuses hard on crossing the room to scroll dig out his dance shoes, trying to find them quickly so he doesn’t go over and kiss Keith senseless, “this space is insane. Too insane for one person. Shiro,” he grabs at Shiro’s ankle, making his eyes big and guileless as Shiro squints disapprovingly down at him with as straight a face as he can manage, “I’m moving in. When’s good for you? Tuesday? Wednesday?”

“Sorry, no can do,” Shiro shakes his head, determinedly banishing the thoughts of what it would be like to see Keith in his kitchen in his sweatpants, to have Keith’s bare feet on his coffee table every night, to wake up to Keith in his bed. “No pets allowed.”

Keith flops dejectedly onto the floor, clutching at his heart. “Mr. Shirogane, you’re the  _ worst _ .” He looks over and starts laughing. “What is  _ that  _ face?”

“That’s what my students call me,” Shiro answers, trying to shake the sudden wave of embarrassment off as he pulls off his sweatshirt and slips his feet into his shoes. “I’ve never liked it, and it’s...weird, coming from you.”

Keith just laughs, pushing himself to his feet and crossing to the homemade barre to bounce through some pliés before stretching himself long into splits. “Why do you teach, anyway?” he asks, his curious eyes finding Shiro’s in the mirror. “You could still be in the corps, especially after the way you’ve been training lately.”

Shiro shrugs uncomfortably, crossing to the barre and beginning his own series of stretches. He points his toes, pushing up slowly through demi-pointe and back down, focusing on the careful articulation of each stage from top to bottom. 

“It was unclear when I first woke up if I’d even be able to dance again at all,” he says finally, “and even once I was up and walking, and was learning to manage my prosthetic, it was clear it was going to be a long rehab.”

Keith hums in response. “They weren’t willing to hold your spot for you?”

“No,” Shiro shakes his head. “I couldn’t have returned before the next season at the very earliest, and there was no reason to think I’d be able to return at all, but I needed a job. Sam Holt did me a tremendous favor by getting them to take me on as a teacher so that I could combine my rehab with a paycheck, and work on my own progress while still being able to contribute.”

“Didn’t it hurt,” Keith asks, his voice gentle, “to be there every day and see what you were missing?”

Shiro takes a deep breath and blows it out slowly, trying not to remember the number of times he would stay after his last class, pushing and pushing until he collapsed in the empty studio, pounding his fists into the floor as he wept bitter tears of frustration. 

“Yes,” he says simply. “It still does.”

“Did you ever want to teach at all?”

Shiro pauses, considering. “I hadn’t really thought about it,” he answers, taking a couple of jumps as Keith warms up his calves. “I imagine I would have eventually, most dancers do; but I didn’t plan to be doing it at 24.”

“But you want to be a choreographer?” Keith looks at him skeptically in the mirror as Shiro walks across the room to fiddle with the speakers and his music player.

“Maybe?” Shiro pulls up the song he wants. “It’d be something different, anyway. Something more creative than just running teenagers through exercises.” He sighs. “You ready?”

Keith nods, but holds his gaze. “You should be dancing, Shiro. You’re wasted on anything else.”

Shiro turns his head and pushes play.

-

 


	5. let me feel you moving like they do in Babylon

Keith’s already in the studio Shiro’s come to think of as “theirs” over the last month when he gets there; the smallest one, down at the end of the hall, with the crappy sound system and the biggest windows. He’s illuminated by the setting sun, the orange light glinting off his dark hair and illuminating the sharp planes of his face. He’s heart-stoppingly beautiful, Shiro thinks, delicate angles smoothing into hard curves of muscle in his long limbs, unspeakable grace in the stillness with which he holds his body.

“Sorry I’m late,” Shiro says, and Keith turns, his face lighting instantly with pleasure at the sight of him. 

“It’s okay,” Keith says, crossing the room to fold himself into Shiro’s open arms, tucking his face into Shiro’s shoulder in a way that Shiro can’t believe hasn’t been the only thing that shoulder has been intended for throughout his entire life. He doesn’t know what this thing they’re doing is, they haven’t talked about it or defined it or done anything other than fall into each other’s orbits, but. Keith fits against Shiro’s shoulder like it was made for him, and Shiro gives in to the urge to bury his face in Keith’s hair and just breathe. “Long class?”

“No,” Shiro sighs, “regularly scheduled post-midterm student meltdowns.”

“Oh yeah,” Keith laughs, “I remember that. How many?”

“Just two,” Shiro crosses to the far side of the room to set his bag down and take off his coat. “But the second one was a real doozy.”

“Aw,” Keith says, sitting down in the center of the floor and patting the wood in front of him, “that sucks. Come stretch with me?” He stretches his legs out straight in front of him and waits for Shiro to settle opposite him, the soles of their feet pressed together. “What happened?”

Shiro shifts his weight until he’s comfortable, then reaches out to take Keith’s offered grip, moving their fingers slowly up each other’s arms until they’re grasping each other’s elbows. Shiro lets his head drop forward with a groan, letting the stretch dig into his hamstrings. 

“One of our second years is kind of a bully, and she couldn’t find anyone to agree to do the pas de deux mid-term with her.”

“Oof,” Keith says with a frown, pulling his hands forward up Shiro’s biceps until his head is resting on his knees. Shiro winces, breathing deep and focusing on releasing the tension of the day from his shoulders. “Why is she a bully?”

“I honestly don’t think she means to be?” Shiro says thoughtfully, “she’s got terrible parents; an absentee mother and a stage father who thinks she’s the best at everything. I think she just genuinely doesn’t know how to relate to the other students, and defaults to what she’s seen.”

“I thought the Academy had a no bullying policy?” Keith’s voice is questioning as he rises up, spreading his legs wide in a split. Shiro lets his feet follow Keith’s, though his split is nowhere near as deep. Keith’s flexibility is a marvel, and though Shiro’s the usual amount of bendy for a dancer, he has to stretch up to it. 

His hip flexors pull, but he lets Keith reach out and loop his arms around Shiro’s waist, deepening the stretch. “They do,” he says, “but she’s never done anything bad enough to merit more than a warning. She’s not malicious, just oblivious.” He sighs, scooting forward and leaning side to side to warm up his psoas. “But, when you can’t get a single other student to agree to dance a midterm with you, it brings some realities home to roost.”

Shiro lets his arms settle around Keith’s shoulders, drawing their torsos close as their legs press together along their full lengths. Keith leans up to press their foreheads together, and Shiro feels the stress of the day melt from him. 

“I wish you were there,” he says without thinking, lost in the thought of being able to kiss Keith between classes, to rehearse with him on a stage, to grab coffee with him in the Academy cafeteria. Keith tenses against him, and Shiro sighs. “I’m sorry,” he says softly, “I know you don’t like to talk about it. I just… it would be nice to see you more often.”

Keith rubs a hand up and down his back, then rolls over until he’s lying on the floor, one leg in the air. He waggles his toes at Shiro. “Push,” he says, so Shiro presses up through downward dog until he’s standing, then anchors a foot on Keith’s slack leg, pinning it to the floor as he grips Keith’s calf and pushes his raised leg back to his shoulder. 

“Why did you leave the Academy?” Shiro asks carefully, watching Keith’s face go still as he breathes out through the stretch. “If you don’t want to tell me, it’s alright. I just…”

“I’ll tell you,” Keith interrupts, giving a studied exhale and letting his leg relax until the top of his foot hits the wood. “Okay, switch?”

Shiro guides his leg back up slowly before releasing it and stepping around to the other side of his body to repeat the process on the other side. 

“It was a couple of things,” Keith says, eyes closed, and Shiro tries not to hold his breath, focuses instead on keeping the pressure even as he pushes down on Keith’s body with foot and hands. “Mainly money, but. Not just that.” This leg is tighter, and he takes another breath to get it to his shoulder, his other thigh jumping under Shiro’s foot. “I was a scholarship student, but the scholarship only covers tuition and board. I still had to pay for food and supplies and fees on my own.”

Shiro nods. There are a couple of scholarship recipients every year; he’s familiar with the terms through his own work with the students. 

“You’re not supposed to work while you’re at the Academy,” Keith continues, his leg slowly giving way under Shiro’s hands, “it’s not strictly forbidden, but it’s frowned on.” He shrugs even as the top of his foot touches wood, and blinks his eye open. “I had to. It meant that I was always tired, always behind in class. I couldn’t make enough to get by and still keep up with the classwork.” He exhales slowly. “Down.”

Shiro eases the pressure up, guiding Keith’s leg to neutral and then releasing it, taking his own place on the floor as Keith stands and assumes his stance over Shiro. 

“Ready?”

Shiro nods and breathes into the stretch, staring up at the man leaning over him. “Could your family not help?” he asks, careful to keep his tone neutral. 

“Went into foster care when I was eight,” Keith says, not meeting his eyes. “Got the scholarship, and was basically on my own. The state gave me a stipend until I was sixteen, but after that I had to work.”

“But I thought…” Shiro frowns. 

“My mom found me after I’d left the Academy,” Keith says, “she’d been deployed undercover when my dad died, and didn’t find out what had happened to me until years later. Marmora Dance is run by her brothers; they hired me and took me in as soon as they knew who I was.”

Shiro’s heart clenches in his chest. The family resemblance between them all makes more sense now. He’d assumed there was some connection, but uncles and cousins checks out. 

“If you’d appealed to the board, surely they’d’ve understood there were extenuating circumstances,” Shiro says, struggling to think of how someone as promising as Keith could possibly have lost his spot, missed classes or no. He grunts as his foot finally touches wood, feels his thigh spasming. “Down,” he grunts, and exhales as Keith guides his leg to neutral.

“It wasn’t just that,” Keith tells him softly, “I was never… I never belonged there, Shiro.” He looks away. “I thought I could make myself fit, make it work, but I was wrong.” He laughs softly, and it’s impossible to miss the hint of bitterness. “I was everything they said I was, in the end, no matter how much I tried not to be. I was difficult. I was hard to teach. I brawled with my classmates.” He sighs. “In the end, I was expelled for truancy and fighting, but it was a long time coming.”

“You were someone who deserved to be there just as much as anyone else,” Shiro tells him. “And you were someone who needed a helping hand,” he adds firmly. “I’m sorry to hear you didn’t get it.”

Keith catches his eyes in surprise, the look making his face younger, and for a moment Shiro sees a boy who can’t imagine that someone would care about him. Shiro’s heart cracks in his chest and he breathes into the stretch to distract himself. 

“It is what it is,” Keith says, and Shiro can tell he intends for the conversation to be finished, but Shiro’s not done yet. His mind is ticking over, thoughts of Keith in his scarlet pointe shoes on the Galaxy stage.

“Would you ever go back?” Shiro asks, his voice gentle. 

“No,” Keith’s response is immediate, even as his hands tense on Shiro’s calf. “No,” he repeats, “that part of my life is over now.”

“It doesn’t have to be,” Shiro’s foot taps wood, and Keith relaxes his hold, letting Shiro’s leg release even as he shakes his head. 

“Even if I wanted to go back, I’m too old. It’s too late now.”

“It’s too late for the Academy,” Shiro agrees, “but not for the corps.”

Keith stares at him, face going flat. “No. Forget it, Shiro.”

“Why not?” Shiro sits up, watching as Keith crosses the room restlessly, going to fiddle with the boombox. “You’re more than talented enough. You could audition for the fall contracts.”

Keith laughs outright. “Are you kidding? I wouldn’t get in. I barely made it the first time, and I’m nowhere near Academy shape now; I’d have to quit my job and take classes all summer. I can’t afford that.”

“I could…” Shiro starts, but Keith cuts him off. 

“Shiro, even if I wanted it, they’d never take me. I left on bad terms. There are a hundred dancers in this city alone better than me; they have no reason to want me and a thousand to not.”

“But…”

“ _ No _ , Shiro.” Keith’s tone is final, but he offers his hand to Shiro to pull him up from the floor as music fills the room. “Let it go. Let’s just dance.”

\---

“How’s it going with your boyfriend and the Project of Doom?” Pidge asks when she finds him in his office a week into February. She settles into the chair across from his desk and kicks her dirty feet up onto his desk. 

“He’s not my boyfriend,” Shiro answers automatically, tickling the underside of her arch with the fingers of his prosthetic until she shrieks and takes them down. “I think it’s going well?”

Pidge snorts. “Well, with Keith, I’m pretty sure you’d know if it weren’t.”

Shiro chuckles in spite of himself, closing out of his email. He’s never been on the receiving end of Keith’s temper yet, but based on Acxa’s stories, he can believe it. 

“How well did you know him?” he asks, turning to Pidge, “how well  _ do  _ you know him?”

“Not that well?” Pidge makes a face, thinking. “He was a year ahead of me, but we were in a couple of the same elective classes. We were paired up a couple of times, and figured out that we worked well together, so we worked on a couple projects together the year after that.” She pauses to pick at a cuticle, shoving her finger into her mouth with a wince when it starts to bleed. “He left the Academy after my second year. We haven’t really kept up.”

Shiro nods. Keith doesn’t really seem like the “keeping up” type, and Pidge’s attention span is either lasered or capricious, with little middle ground. 

“Do you know what happened to him? He said he was kicked out.” 

“I’m not really sure?” Pidge answers. “There were rumours; he got in a couple fights, had some disciplinary actions against him. He missed classes sometimes.” She shrugs. “But all I know is secondhand information.”

“I wish he’d come back,” Shiro says, “he’s so talented. And he’s an amazing teacher, but he’s still only twenty. He could have a whole career as a soloist, and still be an amazing teacher when he’s retired.”

Pidge leans forward, pushing her glasses up her nose. “Have you talked to him about it? Twenty’s too old to rejoin the Academy itself, but he could audition for the corps.”

Shiro shoves a hand through his hair. “I think it’s kind of a non-starter,” he admits, “he doesn’t want to talk about the Academy. He keeps making me promise to find someone else to dance my piece, because he doesn’t even want to come on campus.”

“Yikes.” Pidge sucks air through her teeth. “I mean, I guess he doesn’t want to look back?”

“I guess?” Shiro sighs. “It’s such a waste. He’s incredible.”

“Yeah,” Pidge nods sagely. “I’d say you were just thinking with your dick, but I’ve seen it too. He’s something else.”

Silence falls between them for a long moment, then Pidge shakes herself hard and jumps lightly to her feet. 

“Come on, big man,” she says, holding out a hand. “Moon about your boy problems later. This Giselle scenery isn’t going to build itself.”

\--

“So, I started working on something else,” Shiro says late one Saturday night as Keith lies on the floor in front of him, starfished in the studio’s golden overhead glow. 

“Oh yeah?” Keith doesn’t move a muscle. They’ve gone through Shiro’s piece four times in the last hour, start to finish, with Keith holding nothing back. It’s really coming together, but at nearly seven minutes, it’s draining. Shiro’s making the latest round of notes in a sketchbook that he sets down beside him, resting his elbows on his knees as he looks at Keith sprawled on the wooden boards. 

“Wanna see?”

“Mmmhmm.”

“You have to get up,” Shiro laughs, getting to his feet and walking over to extend a hand. Keith groans, but takes it, unprepared for the sudden burst as Shiro hauls him into the air.

“Jerk,” Keith says, landing gracefully on his feet from the sudden jump, but he’s laughing, and Shiro smiles helplessly back. “How’s it go?”

“It’s a duet,” Shiro says, suddenly shy. He pulls his phone out of his sweatpants pocket to shuffle through songs until he finds the one he had in mind. “How’s your ballroom?”

“Rusty,” Keith laughs, “are we doing the cha cha?” 

Shiro plugs his phone into the speaker and pushes play. There’s a moment of silent air before the song starts, and Shiro crosses the room to Keith, hand out. “Trust me?” 

Keith smiles and takes his hand. “Of course.”

The beat drops, and Shiro turns Keith’s back to his chest, dragging Keith’s arms up into the air and hooking them behind his own neck as he guides Keith’s hips down into a dirty swivel before pulling him up and spinning him around. He catches Keith face to face before he completes a second rotation, and sets Keith’s hands on his body, one at his shoulder and the other on his ribs as Shiro quick steps them around in a tight circle. Keith’s braid whips past his shoulder as he spots, but he moves in Shiro’s arms like a dream, casting a leg out high when Shiro pulls him free and guides him into a sharp turn. 

Shiro pulls him into a slow tango step, stretching their legs out long before sliding their feet together, and Keith throws a thigh over Shiro’s own as he bends Keith backward in a deep arc before hauling him up and spinning him out again until they’re an arm’s length apart. 

“Follow me,” Shiro says, and Keith just smiles, mimicking his every move as Shiro leads them through a sultry solo two-step, sliding his hands down his body as he moves and watching in the mirror as Keith does the same. The sequence finishes, and Shiro holds out a hand to Keith, pulling him up against his chest, and fuck, have Keith’s eyes always been that dark? He turns Keith again so his back is to Shiro’s chest and boxes their pelvises together, pushing Keith’s narrow frame through the motions until the music comes to a climax, and Shiro grips hard on Keith’s hips and whispers, “jump.”

The music fades out, the last echoes reverberating in the room as they stare at each other in the mirror, Keith perched on Shiro’s shoulder, both of them heaving for breath. 

It’s like magic, dancing with Keith, Shiro thinks - he anticipates Shiro’s moves, knows Shiro’s body better than Shiro does. He’s strong, and flexible, and game for anything, and Shiro can feel the tremor in his own hands as he lifts them for Keith to grasp as he dismounts. 

Keith ignores them, hooking a hand around the back of Shiro’s neck and arching his back so that he slides down Shiro’s chest, twisting as he goes so that they finish pressed together, chest to chest. Shiro can feel his heart beating like a bird’s, hears static in his mind as Keith licks his lips. 

“What’d you think?” he asks softly, heart in his throat, unspeakably conscious of Keith’s hand still looped around his neck, of his own hands resting lightly on Keith’s taut waist. 

Keith looks at him for a long moment, his eyes searching, cataloging, and finally smiling up at Shiro. 

“I think you’re amazing,” he says, and leans up to bring their lips together.

\--

“Stop messing with your phone.” Matt smacks at Shiro’s hands, but Shiro deflects him with the ease of long familiarity. “It’s family movie night, quit watching cartoons and pay attention.”

“I’m not watching cartoons,” Shiro says automatically, though there’s no heat in it. In his distraction, though, he misses the moment when Pidge slips up beside him and steals his phone from his hands with a shriek of triumph. 

“He’s not watching cartoons!” she crows, dancing out of reach even as Shiro lunges for her. “He’s watching… oh.” Pidge pushes her glasses up her nose and squints at the screen. “Is this what you’ve been working on with Keith?”

Shiro buries his face in his hands. He wasn’t really ready to share their work, but once one Holt sibling has seen it, nothing will do but for the other to see it too. 

“It’s not done,” he says helplessly, “give it back.”

“What’s not done?” Sam Holt settles down in the armchair opposite Shiro’s. 

“The piece that Shiro’s been choreographing, Dad, pay attention,” Pidge answers absently, her concentration still on the screen. “Shiro, this is really good.”

Matt clicks the big screen on. “Throw it to the screen, Pidge, let us all see!”

“No, Pidge…” Shiro reaches a hand to her, but it’s too late. There’s Shiro’s low laugh echoing from the house speakers as the video starts over, the music starting as Keith moves into position. His crimson pointe shoes are captivating against the polished wood, and his steps are sure as he moves through the opening sequence. 

“Is that…” Sam begins, trailing off as Keith flings himself into a leap.

“It’s Keith, yeah,” Pidge answers, “God, he got even better, the shit.”

Silence falls as Keith flawlessly executes a series of spins and flows smoothly into the floor work of the middle section. 

“Wow,” Matt breathes, and Shiro can’t help but agree. He’s watched this on his tablet screen, but it doesn’t compare to Keith in high def, his body swaying to the rhythms that flow around and through him. 

It ends abruptly, Shiro cutting the music and Keith dropping to the floor with a laugh and a grimace. 

“Guess we still gotta workshop that ending a little more,” Keith says, his voice pleased, and Shiro’s affirmative rumbles from off-camera before the video cuts out. 

Sam clears his throat. “Shiro, is that your work?”

“Yes, sir,” Shiro answers, trying not to clench his teeth as he waits for a response. “I wanted to try something… different.”

“It’s remarkable, son,” Sam tells him, beaming, and Shiro can breathe again, shaking his head and smiling. 

“It’s a work in progress,” he says, and Sam nods in understanding. 

“Be that as it may, it’s very good already. I assume you’re thinking of applying for the choreographer opening in the fall?”

“Yes,” Shiro says hesitantly, “I…”

“And Mr…”

“Kogane,” Pidge supplies helpfully, “Keith Kogane.”

“I remember him,” Sam shakes his head. “A wonderful talent, but real challenges with the Academy structure. I wasn’t on the board yet when his scholarship was rescinded, but I was sorry to see him go. I see he’s continued to improve. Is he dancing with a company?”

“No,” Shiro wipes his hands on his pant legs. “He teaches at his family’s dance studio. That’s how I met him.”

“Ah,” Sam says. “Well. He’s very good. I think you’ve made a strong choice of dancer for your piece.”

Shiro takes his phone from Pidge as she offers it, and doesn’t bother to correct him.

—

“Have you had any luck finding someone for your piece?”

Keith’s question is idle, but Shiro can’t help the way he tenses at it, pulled out of his momentary bliss of walking through the park hand in hand with Keith, fantasizing in equal parts about taking Keith to a yakiniku dinner, and then holding hands with him and maybe even doing a little making out in the back row of a movie afterward.

“No,” he says, and he can hear the tight way it comes out. Keith must hear it too, because he pulls them over into the shade and turns to face Shiro, rubbing his thumb across Shiro’s knuckles. “I have tried,” Shiro says softly, hoping that Keith believes him, “but everyone I can even imagine holding a candle to your performance is busy with other things.”

“Shiro,” Keith’s face isn’t angry, but it is disappointed, and Shiro wants to shrink down small and hug his knees, “you’re putting me on a pedestal I don’t deserve. You work with the best dancers in the whole metropolitan area; plenty, if not all, of them would be better choices than me for this piece.” He pulls on Shiro’s fingers, looking up at him with determination. “Your piece is good, and it deserves to be danced by the best. You owe it to yourself to give your piece the best chance it will have at winning.”

“Keith,” Shiro reaches up to tuck a piece of hair behind Keith’s ear, “that’s  _ you _ . You’re the best. You’re the originator of this piece, and you’re the only one I want to dance it.” He sighs as Keith looks stubbornly away. “Look, I have been trying, I’m not lying to you about that, but… won’t you please reconsider?”

“Shiro,” Keith’s voice is tired, and he turns to begin walking again, his fingers going lax in Shiro’s hand. “We’ve been over this. No.”

“We haven’t been over this, not really,” Shiro says, his fingers hanging on to Keith’s even as he stands firmly where he is. “Listen, you’ve said that your concerns are that you’re not up to the technical caliber of the Academy. I disagree with you…” he raises his other hand as Keith opens his mouth to object, “I disagree with you, but if I’m wrong, and that’s truly the case, we can fix that.”

“Shiro,” Keith starts, and his forehead is wrinkled with displeasure, “no, I don’t…”

“I know you’ve said that you can’t take summer classes because you can’t afford them, and you can’t quit your job to focus on them anyway. Right?”

Keith nods reluctantly, his fingers still loose in Shiro’s grip.

Shiro takes a quick breath, catching Keith’s gaze. “Listen, Keith - I have a lot of money. The insurance settlement… it didn’t come through until nearly a year after the accident, but when it did, it was big.” He can see Keith’s mouth open, so he barrels on. “Let me pay for your classes. Just for the summer, just so you can get into the corps. I just want to see you have another chance. You’re so gifted, Keith, you have no idea, and I just want to help you be at the level you should be.” He takes Keith’s hand in both of his, his voice pleading. “Let me do this for you, Keith. Let me help.”

“Shiro,” Keith says, and his voice is full of bitterness in a way that drops Shiro’s heart to his shoes. “Believe me when I tell you that you are the only one who wants me there.”

“I can’t believe that’s true.” Shiro pulls them to a gentle stop. “Listen - it’s foolish to throw away your dream over something as trivial as money.”

“Spoken like someone who grew up with everything paid for,” Keith says sharply, and Shiro bites his lip. “I don’t want your help, Shiro. I don’t want you to be my sugar daddy, or my meal ticket.”

“No, Keith,” Shiro protests, “nothing like that. Just,”

“I’m doing just fine where I am. I pay my bills, I take care of myself. I don’t need you swanning in and  _ fixing  _ me.” He pulls his hand free and crosses his arms. “Not every dream comes true, Shiro. Some of us go on without them.”

“I just,” Shiro starts again. “Keith, is this really what you want to do? Teach old ladies and little kids barre routines at 15 dollars an hour for the rest of your life?” He grabs at Keith’s shoulders, trying to ground them both. “You’re so much better than that, Keith. You’re worth so much more. You could do  _ anything _ .”

“How does that work, Mr. Shirogane,” Keith’s lip curls, “doing what you do isn’t good enough? My teaching isn’t up to your standards?”

“You are deliberately misunderstanding me,” Shiro tells him, forcing his voice to be calm. “I teach because it was the opportunity given me at the time, just like you. But I am  _ trying  _ to do something more, and so could you.”

“I’m not your charity case, Shiro,” Keith growls, and shakes Shiro’s grip off. To his horror, Shiro sees that Keith’s eyes have gone glassy even as his cheeks are bright with anger. “And I don’t deserve what you think of me. Why can’t you let this go? I thought we were friends, I thought we were…”

“We are,” Shiro whispers, “we  _ are _ , please, I’m sorry, I just want to help.” He catches Keith’s face tenderly between his hands, “I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have pushed you.” 

Keith closes his eyes, and Shiro kisses each one before pulling Keith into his arms. Keith’s whole body is fraught with tension, but he wraps his arms around Shiro’s waist and buries his face in Shiro’s shoulder nonetheless. 

“I’m sorry,” Shiro murmurs into Keith’s hair, rubbing a hand soothingly across his back. “I promise I won’t ask again.”

“Thank you,” Keith says, and relaxes a fraction into Shiro’s grip. Shiro kisses the top of his head.

“I’m sorry, Keith,” he says again, trying to let the adrenaline fade and his heart slow as he refocuses his senses on the man in his arms. “I won’t do it again.”

—

“Heeeeey, Shiro.” Matt’s voice is excited, but slightly apprehensive, and Shiro turns the volume up on the projection, rubbing sleep from his eyes. “Have you checked your mail yet?”

“No?” Shiro rolls his neck and yawns. “Why would I? It’s six am on a Saturday.”

“Uh, no reason. Is, uh, is Keith there with you?”

Shiro pushes down the rising sense of unease as Pidge enters the frame behind Matt, twisting her hair in a way that betrays her own nerves. 

“No, we’re not…” Shiro feels his face flush. “We’re taking it slow, okay? So no, he’s not here.”

“So romantic,” Matt swoons, and he and Pidge get lost in batting their eyes at each other as hard as they can.

“So,” Shiro interrupts before the battle descends into noogies, “why did you wake me up at ass o’clock on a Saturday, asking about my mail?”

“Oh, that,” Matt says breezily, waving a hand and making every hair on Shiro’s body stand upright with dread. “Well, it’s nothing really.”

“Really nothing at all,” Pidge chimes in from behind him. “It’s just that we wanted to make sure that you heard it from us first.”

“Heard what?” Shiro doesn’t even know what genre of information he’s dreading, if he’s honest - with the Holt siblings, it could literally be anything.

“Just that, um, well,” Pidge starts, and Matt jumps in. 

“Just that your video submission has been accepted to the First Annual Galaxy Dance Company Choreographers Competition, which will be hosted by Galaxy Academy in May. Great! Bye!”

Matt hangs up, but Shiro hits the reverse dial before his image has even disappeared from the screen.

“My  _ what _ has been accepted?” Shiro asks, voice perfectly level, perfectly calm.

“Your video submission. Of Keith dancing your piece.” Matt grins manically. “You know, the copy you gave Pidge.”

“You mean…” Shiro feels sick. His piece isn’t even done, it’s not good, it’s not ready… and Keith, fuck. Keith wouldn’t even agree to perform it publicly, and now a video of him dancing it has been sent to a bunch of admission judges for a contest? “You mean that Pidge lifted a video from my phone, and then you submitted it? As in, forged mine and probably Keith’s permissions, and entered us into a competition that neither of us consented to?”

Matt titters awkwardly. “Well, when you put it  _ that _ way…”

“What other way should I put it, Matt?”

Pidge steps forward, shoulders squared. 

“You should put it that your two closest friends took action to get you and Keith the recognition and respect that you both deserve.”

“So you decided to get us that recognition and respect by violating our privacy and disregarding our consent.”

Pidge’s face falls, and Shiro feels the guilt start to seep in. He drags a hand over his face. “Look, I know you guys meant well, but you should have asked. I’m not comfortable with this, and Keith’s very sensitive about who sees him dance. We’ll just have to drop out.”

“Lotor’s submission was also accepted,” Matt says carefully, and Pidge leans in to the camera, nodding. “Also, the prize is five thousand dollars.”

“Five thousand dollars,” Shiro repeats, and the Holts nod. It’s enough to get Keith the summer off, Shiro thinks, to let him take the classes he would need to get completely back up to Galaxy’s standard. And to beat Lotor… he lets it sink in before clicking the red  _ end call _ icon.

He turns over and buries his head in his pillow and screams. 

 


	6. show me slowly what I only know the limits of

The last note of the music fades out, and Keith brings his arms down to a lowered fifth position, head tipped and chest heaving. He holds it for one beat, then two, then lifts his head to look questioningly at Shiro, who just begins to nod. Keith’s face breaks into a radiant smile and he flings himself at Shiro, who catches him in midair with a laugh, pressing their foreheads together.

“Was that it?” Keith’s voice is breathless, and Shiro is busy choking on every possible emotion at once, so he just nods frantically, then leans up and kisses Keith, walking over to set him down on the windowsill and kiss him some more in the warm noonday sun. 

“So, you really think it’s finished?” Keith asks later as they walk hand in hand down the block. Keith lives closer than Shiro, and Shiro likes to walk him home after class, detouring past the sidewalk ice cream stand when the weather is warm like it is today. 

Shiro hums in affirmation, watching as Keith’s tongue reaches out to catch a drip from his cone. 

“I do. I think that’s it.” He shakes his head. “You were… you were wonderful, Keith.” His voice shakes slightly at the memory, and Keith squeezes his hand reassuringly. “I’m so glad I got it all on tape.”

Keith laughs. “You mean you haven’t been frantically penciling down notes this whole time?”

“Hey,” Shiro elbows him lightly, his tone indignant, but his face amused, “Hand notating is the best way to problem solve, and there’s direct evidence that it helps to encode information into the memory.”

Keith just snorts. “Okay, old-timer, if you say so.”

“I say so,” Shiro says firmly, then grabs Keith’s wrist and drags his cone over to steal a lick, Keith squawking his protests in Shiro’s ear even as his fingers cling to Shiro’s own. 

“Hey, um,” Shiro starts once they’ve walked a bit further, fighting not to tighten his grip on Keith’s hand. “There’s something I’ve been meaning to tell you.” 

Keith looks at him curiously from where he’s sucking the last of his ice cream out from the bottom of his cone. “Yeah?”

“Yeah. Um. So, a few weeks ago I was over at the Holts’ place, and Pidge and Matt caught me watching one of our rehearsal videos.” Shiro rubs anxiously at the back of his head. “They made me show it to them.”

Keith’s face shutters instantly, but he doesn’t pull away, so Shiro counts that as a win.

“I know you don’t like the idea of Academy people seeing you dance, but the Holts are like family to me. They wanted to know what I was working on, and,” Shiro lifts his chin, “and I was excited to show them. I’m proud of what we’ve been doing.”

“You should be,” Keith says softly, “the piece is really good.”

“That’s what the Holts thought, too,” Shiro tells him, and Keith smiles cautiously, crunching on the last of his cone. “Sam said he thought it showed a lot of promise, and everyone thought you were especially amazing. I know you don’t want to hear it,” he says as Keith turns his face away, “but I just want you to know that they praised you, specifically, not just the piece.”

“Okay,” Keith says, but it’s stiff, and Shiro represses a sigh as he lets it go. 

“So, um. The thing is,” he starts, and he can feel Keith tense beside him. 

“There’s more?”

“Yeah. Katie…” Shiro sighs, looking away. He’s still mad, but that’s neither here nor there at this point; Keith deserves to know. “Pidge… she copied the file off my phone, and she and Matt submitted it to a competition.”

“They  _ what _ ?” Keith’s face freezes in shock, then immediately thaws to anger. “They stole our work and shared it without permission?”

“Keith, listen to me,” Shiro tries to sound calm and firm, but his heart is racing in his chest. “There’s a choreography competition at the end of the term. It’s a great opportunity…”

“A great opportunity for  _ you _ ,” Keith states, “because it’s  _ your  _ piece.”

“It’s as much yours at this point as mine,” Shiro answers, “and the piece was accepted.”

“No,” Keith shakes his head. “How many times do we have to go over this, Shiro?  _ No _ . Get Pidge to dance it. Get Matt to dance it. Fuck, get that idiot from that waacking workshop, what was his name, Clance? Make him do it. Because I’m not going to.”

“The prize is five thousand dollars,” Shiro says softly, and Keith goes pink-cheeked with anger.

“You think I can be  _ bought _ ? You think I’m just going to waltz in where I’m not wanted and beg for a handout all over again just because there’s prize money?” 

“Keith, I didn’t…”

“I know you didn’t ‘mean it like that’, Shiro, but do you  _ hear  _ yourself?” Keith yanks away from him, his body a long, sharp line of fury. “Galaxy Dance doesn’t want me, they made that abundantly clear when they kicked me out, and frankly, the feeling is mutual. Just because you’re their golden boy cruising for a redemption, that doesn’t change anything for  _ me _ .”

Shiro closes his mouth, reaches out to set a hand on Keith’s shoulder. “I’m sorry,” he says, “I just thought…”

“I know what you thought,” Keith spits out, “but I wish instead of thinking, you’d start  _ listening _ .” He steps back. “I’ll talk to you later.”

He disappears into the crowd as Shiro watches, unmistakably graceful even as he stomps angrily away. Shiro walks himself aimlessly to a nearby bench and settles down, pulling out his phone. His last text is from Keith, a simple  _ <3 _ in response to the suggestion of ice cream after class. 

He closes it and pulls up a new message to Matt.

_ I told him _ , Shiro types, and watches as the little typing symbol appears. 

_ Well??? _

_ Not good _ , Shiro types back, and closes his phone so he can bury his face in his hands.

\--

“So, is he gonna forgive us?” Matt’s omelette is finished but his coffee is not, and he peers over the rim of his mug at Shiro with innocent eyes.

Shiro takes a bite, chewing and swallowing before he replies. “I don’t know,” he says finally, “I think he’s done being angry about it, but that doesn’t mean he’s over it. And frankly,” he levels a stare at Matt, “I’m not over it either.”

“I’m sorry, Shiro,” Matt says, and it sounds sincere. “We didn’t realize you’d be so upset. Or that he would take it so hard.”

“You didn’t stop to think about what his feelings might be at all,” Shiro corrects, “you may not know him, but Pidge does, and you both know his history.” He downs the last of his coffee and holds Matt’s gaze. “It was careless and inconsiderate.”

“You’re right,” Matt spreads his hands and leans back against the booth. “I’m sorry, Shiro, I am. We thought we were helping, but we were wrong.”

Shiro nods in acknowledgment. “I know, but that doesn’t make it okay. And I know you well enough to believe that you were just being stupid, not malicious, but he doesn’t - he can’t, not in the same way.”

Matt hangs his head in defeat, and Shiro wants to feel bad for him, but then he remembers the fact that Keith has barely texted him for the last four days. 

“You have to convince him, Shiro,” Matt says, lifting his head to catch Shiro’s eye earnestly. Shiro frowns. 

“Convince him to dance the piece? Why? He’s been pretty clear that he’s not going to do it.”

Matt sighs heavily and studies his fingers. “I might’ve also talked to my dad about his… your… situation.”

“What.” Shiro’s tone is flat, and Matt grimaces responsively. 

“I just… I know that you and Pidge both think that Keith should be at the Academy, and after watching that tape, I agree.” His hands twist as his mouth rushes away with words. “So after we submitted it, and after it got accepted, I showed it to Dad, and asked him if the board would agree to allow his dancing of your piece to function as an audition for the corps.”

Shiro slowly lowers his coffee cup to the table, feeling like he’s watching a car crash in slow motion. 

“Oh, no. What did you do, Matt?” he breathes, and Matt has the courtesy to look anxious.

“My dad convinced the board, Shiro. If Keith agrees to dance your piece at the competition, it will count as an audition for the academy.”

“And if my piece fails?” Shiro asks, heart in his throat, “if my choreography is bad, and we lose?”

Matt shakes his head sharply. “It’s contingent only upon his performance, not the outcome of the competition. If he does well, he’s in, regardless of anything else.”

Thank goodness for small mercies, Shiro thinks as he exhales, but still. “He’s not going to agree to it, Matt.”

“You have to tell him, Shiro.” Matt reaches across to lay his hand across the metal of Shiro’s prosthetic where it rests on the table. “He deserves to know he has a chance.”

Shiro thinks of Keith, of the way his body shrinks and tightens at the mention of Garrison Academy, at the way his whole face closes at the notion of even setting foot on the grounds. He thinks of the way that Keith pulls away from his touch when Shiro tells him he’s talented, the way he holds himself rigidly upright at any suggestion that where he is, what he’s doing, might not be enough. 

Shiro pictures him dancing, his arms open and legs extended, head thrown back, neck arched, mouth softly open.

“I’ll tell him,” he says reluctantly. 

\--

“Keith,” Shiro says after class, careful to keep his distance. Keith has been polite to him in class all week, but professionally distant, correcting his form as needed but without any but the most perfunctory touches. “Can I talk to you for a moment?”

Keith watches as the last student leaves the room, waving and smiling as the door shuts behind them. He turns to Shiro and the smile falls from his face as he folds his arms. 

“What’s up?” he asks, leaning against the bar, watching Shiro carefully. 

Shiro aches to touch him, but he stays where he is on the bench, a room’s width from the man he adores. 

“I’m sorry,” he says, and Keith nods.

“We’ve covered that,” Keith tells him, “what else?”

“I miss you,” Shiro says, even though it’s not what he means to spit out. 

Keith’s face wavers, and for a moment Shiro catches a glimpse of deep sadness in his huge, dark eyes. 

“I miss you, too,” Keith whispers, and Shiro balls his hands into fists in order to keep them to himself. 

“I talked to Matt,” he tells Keith, dropping his eyes to the floor. He doesn’t think he can bear to see the look on Keith’s face after what he has to say next. “He also says he’s sorry, for the record.”

“Yes,” Keith shifts his weight and the barre creaks beneath him. “He and Pidge both messaged me to apologize.”

“He also said,” Shiro breathes out, “that I have to convince you to dance the piece at the competition.”

He hears Keith suck in a breath, watches as his legs go tense. 

“Why?” Keith’s voice is tired and wary, and Shiro twists his hands together.

“Because he talked to his father, Sam Holt”

“I know who his father is, Shiro,” Keith says flatly, “why does that matter?”

“It matters because Sam Holt is on the board of directors at Galaxy Dance, and because he saw your video, and because Matt convinced him, and he then convinced the board…” Shiro trails off into silence for a moment before he forces himself to continue. “Sam convinced the board to treat it as an audition,” Shiro says softly, “if you dance my piece well enough, they’ll admit you to the corps.”

The silence between them is thick, stealing all the sound from the room, pulling the breath from Shiro’s lungs. 

Keith moves at last, shattering the frozen space between them with the shuffle of his feet as he crosses the room to collect his things. He pulls on his jacket and slides the strap of his bag over his shoulder. Shiro sits immobile on the bench, hands clutching each other, one metal, one skin.

Keith pauses with his hand on the door. His voice is quiet, but unmistakable, and it strikes Shiro through the heart as surely as the car crash struck his arm from his body.

“I’m leaving, Shiro,” Keith says, “we’re done.”

\--

“Keith, I’m so sorry. Can we talk? Please?”

“Keith, please. Call me?”

“Keith. Please?”


	7. dance me to the wedding now, dance me on and on; dance me very tenderly and dance me very long

Shiro makes it through his prep period out the sheer force of habit, recording his attendance rosters from the day before and taking notes on the lesson plan for the next week. It’s only a couple of weeks until finals, and he needs to make sure that there’s a clear arc through each week’s work to get them to where they need to be. 

He plots out the rest of his lesson plans in a fugue state, leaving them in a stack on his desk before heading into the studio to warm up. He moves through the motions like an automaton, swinging his legs through kicks and stretches on one side before turning to the other. He arches his back and lifts his arm and his mind is empty, utterly blank, as barren of life as the glass and wood room around him.

He catches a glimpse of himself in the glass as he turns, and freezes, unable to recognize the face that stares back at him. He looks old, tired; the front of his hair hangs limply across his face, and the bags under his eyes only serve to highlight the scar that cuts across his nose. His shoulders are slumped and his eyes are bloodshot, and he reaches out a hand to his own reflection as if to confirm that this, really, is him. 

The man in the mirror reaches toward him and the illusion cracks, and Shiro can’t suddenly think what he’s doing here, why he would still be here when the person he loves most in the world is somewhere else entirely. Why, when this place, this role, has come between them, he would still be here, shuffling lesson plans for teenagers and swinging his legs alone in an empty room when he’s not even allowed on stage anymore.

It breaks over him like a wave, realization and resolve at once, and he’s moving before he knows what he’s doing, grabbing up his bag and shoving things from his locker into it, heedless of rhyme or reason. All he knows is that he has to get out, has to leave, has to do it now. 

\--

Matt catches him as he’s signing his resignation letter, and Shiro can only imagine what picture he must make, his coat on and his bag over his shoulder as he scribbles furiously on a piece of paper, empty locker standing open behind him.

“...Shiro?” Matt asks, and Shiro scrawls his signature on the bottom of the page.

“Give this to Iverson for me,” Shiro tells him, standing up straight and hitching his bag up. “I’m leaving.”

“You… what?” Matt’s face goes hurt and surprised. “You’re quitting? But why? What will you do?”

“I don’t know,” Shiro laughs, “but I’m tired of going through the motions. This was my dream, Matt, you know that. It was everything to me.” He crosses the room and sets a hand on Matt’s shoulder. “All I wanted was to be the best dancer I could be, to be the best dancer there was.”

“And you were, Shiro,” Matt says, his voice tight with upset. “Shiro, why are you doing this?”

“I was,” Shiro agrees, “and now I’m here watching everyone else do what they love, and follow their dreams, while I haunt the halls like a ghost, like a cautionary tale.” He exhales hard, “the question isn’t why would I leave, but why I’ve stayed here at all when every day hurts.”

Matt’s face softens, his eyes round and sad. “Shiro, I…”

“Keith is my everything now, Matt,” Shiro says, and drops his hand. “And you and Pidge helped me realize that, but you also broke it. So now I have to go find him, and I have to fix it.”

“Shiro, think it over,” Matt pleads, “take a hiatus if you need to, but don’t just throw everything away for a boy who might not even talk to you.”

“I have to, Matt,” Shiro tells him, “if I don’t, and I miss out on him, I’ll never forgive myself. This is what I have to do. I love him.” He lets the words hang in the air, the first time he’s said them aloud. He likes the way they sound. “I love him, and I want to be with him. I love him more than my apartment, more than my friends. I love him more than dance.” Matt blinks, and Shiro keeps going. “I want a chance to tell him that. All of it. And then he can tell me to leave, and I’ll go, if that’s what he wants. But I’m all in, and I need him to know that.”

“Okay,” Matt whispers, hands closing around the letter, “good luck, Shiro. Go get him.”

Shiro squeezes Matt’s shoulder one last time, then steps through the door.

\--

“Wait, Shiro!” a voice calls out behind him as Shiro heads for the parking lot. “Shiro,  _ fuck _ , wait up!”

Against his better judgment, Shiro turns, and Pidge fumbles to a stop in front of him, breathing hard.

“Here,” she says, shoving a slip of paper into his hand. “Keith hasn’t been home in days, but I talked to Acxa, and she said this is the address of the place where he lived with his dad. He goes there sometimes to hide out when he needs to get away.”

Shiro takes it, examining the address. It’s a good hour’s drive away. He looks up at Pidge, her wide hazel eyes nervous. 

“I’m sorry we fucked this up for you, Shiro,” she says, “for both of you. I hope you can fix it.”

“Thanks,” he tells her, folding the paper into his pocket and sighing. “I ...listen, it wasn't just you guys. It's my fault too... I’ve been pushing him this whole time to come back, even when he said he didn’t want to.” Shiro fishes his keys out of his pocket and unlocks his car door. “What you two did was wrong,  but I helped. I should have handled a lot of things differently.”

Pidge steps forward all at once, flinging her arms around his middle and hugging him hard before stepping back.  “Good luck,” she says, voice high and tight in the morning air. “Drive safe.”

Shiro doesn’t answer, just clips his safety belt and pulls out of the parking lot at speed. 

\--

There are no identifying features of the property to tell him he has the right place, but he pulls up next to a weather-beaten truck and parks, turning off the engine and studying the place in front of him. 

The house is small, and “modest” might be overselling the two-story, but it’s well maintained. Besides the truck there are a number of vehicles in various states of functionality gathered in a relatively orderly fashion around the outbuildings. There’s no response to the sound of his arrival, though it must’ve been clearly audible to anyone inside the house, so he gets out of his car and walks over to the porch. There’s a window to the left of the door, curtained and dim; an old porch swing hanging at the far end of the wooden decking; and a door that remains steadfastly shut even as Shiro knocks on it. 

He knocks on the door three times, firm enough that there’s no question it would be heard, but not so loud that it seems confrontational, and when the door remains firmly shut, he goes to sit on the swing, idly pushing it back and forth with a foot. 

Shiro waits.

\--

Keith emerges around sunset with a granola bar and a glass of water that he sets on the floorboards near Shiro. He stands nearby, leaning up against one of the support posts, his face beautiful and utterly unreadable.

Shiro unwraps the granola bar and eats it gratefully, drinking half the water and then setting the glass back down. He keeps the porch swing in gentle motion with his toe. 

“Why are you here, Shiro?”

Shiro pats the swing next to him. “Sit with me?”

Keith shakes his head, something that’s not quite a smile playing at the edge of his mouth. 

“That thing won’t hold us both. I’m a little shocked it’s holding you, if I’m honest.”

Shiro leans back to look at the rusty eye-bolts holding the swing to the roof of the porch. 

“Well, if it falls, I won’t go far,” he says, shrugging, then turns back to Keith.

“Why are you  _ here _ , Shiro?” Keith’s voice is soft, but also tight with repressed emotion, and it hurts Shiro to see this incredibly expressive person holding himself in such rigid check. 

“I’m here for you,” he says simply, and waits for Keith’s response. 

Keith frowns. “What, you mean, you’re here to bring me back?”

“If you want to go back, sure,” Shiro tells him, “but that’s not my main goal.”

“What is your main goal?”

“Keith,” Shiro pats the swing next to him again. “Please. Sit with me?”

Keith stands still for a long breath, then unbends and settles himself carefully on the far side of the porch swing from Shiro, easing his weight onto it. It creaks a bit but holds, and Shiro keeps it in gentle motion, absorbing the extra sway from Keith’s added weight. It’s emblematic of how they always work together, Shiro thinks idly, adapting to each other’s motion while keeping the movement in flow. It’s part of what he loves so much about being with Keith: this feeling that they’re in it together, that where one of them leads, the other will follow, and if one of them slips, the other will be there to catch them. 

Shiro takes a breath, blows it out quickly. “I quit my job,” he says, and Keith gives a poorly muffled gasp next to him. 

“Shiro,” he starts, “I…”

Shiro holds up his hand, and Keith falls silent. “I quit my job. My suitcase is in the car. I’ll need to go back to pack up my apartment at some point, but. Those are just details.” He keeps his eyes facing forward, staring out at the rolling rocky hills that stretch in front of him, the fading orange glow of the sunset illuminating the already dried grass. “If you don’t want me here, I’ll leave, but. I’ve done a lot of thinking about it the last couple of days, and Keith…” he turns now to the man beside him, reaching out to take Keith’s long fingers into his own hands, but Keith pulls away, standing up, and Shiro’s heart sinks. 

“Come on,” Keith says, holding out a hand. Shiro takes it, standing awkwardly after the long time on the swing, and follows Keith through the open door into the house.

It takes him a moment adjust to the dim light inside, the far wall painted in a glowing orange from the window that faces the setting sun. The interior is as modest as the exterior, but homey- there’s a handmade afghan on the back of an old-looking couch, and a shelf on the wall covered in ribbons, trophies, and photos. Keith lets go of him and moves toward the back of the house, leaving Shiro to gravitate toward the far wall.

“Do you want a cup of tea?” Keith calls, and Shiro nods before he remembers that Keith can’t hear him. 

“Yeah,” he calls out, “thanks.”

The bookshelf is five shelves, nearly as tall as Shiro is, and seems to be arranged in chronological order, starting from the bottom. Shiro drops into a squat to peer at the photos of what must be a no-more-than four year old Keith dressed for a recital, red sequined bow-tie around his neck and plastic top hat perched on his head at a jaunty angle. He’s pointing a foot in a tap shoe and smiling for the camera, and Shiro feels his heart clutch in his chest. 

The next row up contains a series of ribbons, a number of small trophies, and a sash. Shiro skims them as he listens to Keith move around the kitchen: Little Bits Dance Champion; Regional First Place, 8 and Under; Best Male Performance, Youth category at the state fair. The pictures show a slowly aging Keith in a series of costumes, moving from somewhere around kindergarten with missing front teeth to a short but strong pre-teen, black hair falling in his eyes as he hefts a trophy half his size.

Shiro stands to examine the middle shelf, peering closely at the pictures. There’s a gap in years on the trophies, and Shiro realizes with a sudden sadness that it must reflect the transition from Keith living with his father to living in foster care. Keith’s face in the photos is older, closed off, but the trophies and ribbons reflect the same success, blue and covered in stars and number ones. 

The shelf at Shiro’s eyeline is emptier, only a few trophies this time, marked with with dates from only half a decade ago. His last competitions before joining the Academy, Shiro thinks, and picks up the photo on the far end of the shelf. It’s of Keith in a pair of worn leggings and an oversized sweatshirt, a duffel bag slung over his shoulder as he stands in front of the steps Shiro knows so well. Keith’s squinting in the direct sun, and smiling like he knows he should be happy, but can’t quite remember how. 

Shiro reaches out to touch the glass, wishing he could reach back in time and touch this Keith’s face. Where was he, Shiro wonders, when this was taken? Starting his first practice of the year with the corps? Getting lunch with Adam? It’s impossible to know, but he stares at the uncertain hope on Keith’s face and wishes he’d been there to see it in person. How different would things be for both of them now, he wonders, if they’d met years ago instead of months?

“Reminiscing?” Keith asks dryly at his elbow, pushing a cup of tea into Shiro’s hand. Shiro sets the photo gently back on the shelf, raising his eyes to the top as he blows softly across the surface of his mug. The only occupant of the top row is a teaching certificate, emblazoned with the logo of Marmora Dance.

“You loved it,” Shiro says, eyes on the Keith in front of him instead of the many Keiths caught behind glass. 

“I still love it,” Keith answers quietly, and it feels like an admission of guilt. 

“You’re an amazing dancer,” Shiro tells him, keeping his voice soft. It feels almost like they’re out of time, caught in a bubble away from the world, and Shiro doesn’t want to risk bursting it. “Why did you leave?”

Keith sighs, reaching out to straighten a frame. He cradles his tea against his chest, and when he begins to speak, his voice is tight and low.

“I don’t know how to put into words what it meant to me to come to Galaxy Academy,” he starts. “My dad was a dancer, and I danced as soon as I could walk. I loved it, and I loved him, and it was our whole world.” His eyes settle on a photo near the bottom of the shelf, a brown-haired man with Keith’s smile standing with a small, sequin-covered Keith in a sash seated on his shoulders. “He died when I was eight, and since my mom had disappeared years before, I went into foster care.”

“I’m sorry,” Shiro says, reaching out to briefly touch Keith’s elbow. He wishes he could transmit that touch back to the child-that-was, wishes he could have somehow been there for Keith, hoping that it’s not too late for him to be there for Keith now.

“Thanks,” Keith says, and his voice is tired with old loss. “The first family I was with didn’t want me to dance; it wasn’t a thing boys did. But I kept practicing on my own, and then after two years I got rehomed, and my second family didn’t mind.” He laughs softly. “They didn’t much care what I did, honestly, so long as I wasn’t getting in trouble, so I got myself a local restaurant to sponsor me and started taking lessons again, and dragged my way back to the top.”

“Jesus, Keith,” Shiro says, letting every ounce of respect color his voice, “that’s amazing. You did this at ten?”

Keith just shrugs. “I’ve never liked being told no.” He takes a drink of his tea, pausing to brush dust off a sash. “I auditioned for the Galaxy Academy at fifteen, and started in the fall before my sixteenth birthday. It was… hard. I didn’t really know how to get along with other kids, and I wasn’t used to living with so many normal teenagers. The other kids I’d been around were mostly like me- used to doing without, not used to trusting others.” He takes another long drink of his tea. “I had to work for money - I think I told you I had a scholarship, but it wasn’t enough. Working meant I was tired, and had trouble keeping up. It also meant I was even more apart from my peers, never around to socialize or practice together. It worked okay for the first year, but the second year was a lot harder. Honestly, I only made it through the fall semester because of Pidge.” He chuckles.

“Because of Pidge?” Shiro asks, and Keith gives him a wry smile. 

“Pidge had some of the same problems I did- didn’t get along great with the other kids, didn’t love being bossed around by the teachers. In second year, you end up doing more pair and group projects. Pidge was flexible enough to work with me in the classes we had together, and she didn’t care what I did in my off time so long as I could show up ready to dance.”

Shiro nods. It sounds like Pidge, and also sounds like what she had told him about working with Keith.

“Second semester, though, we got  _ pas de deux  _ class. No one would agree to work with me for the final because I wasn’t available to practice as much as they wanted. The teacher ended up assigning me a partner - my roommate, James Griffin.” Keith snorts. “He was livid. He protested all the way to the board, but they didn’t care. I think now they wanted a chance for me to unequivocally fail, because I was doing so many things they didn’t approve of, but couldn’t outright expel me for. So they gave me enough rope to hang myself.”

“Keith,” Shiro breathes out, his heart in his throat. “What happened?”

“We worked on it together - we didn’t have a choice. But one day the week before the mid-terms, we’d been fighting and fighting about how to do it, and we were dancing it terribly. We never got along anyway, and having us dependent on each other for success only made us hate each other more.” Keith sighs. “He lifted me, but he did it a beat before I was ready, so I slipped, and he didn’t catch me. I hit the floor wrong, and twisted my ankle. Everyone just stood around; none of our classmates said a word, or came to help.” Keith exhales hard, and bites at his lip before continuing. “When I tried to get up, it was clear I couldn’t walk on it, let alone dance on it, and James just lost it, started shouting at me that I was faking just so I wouldn’t have to work with him, that trash like me was bringing down the whole class, that I should never have been admitted in the first place and the only reason I was there was as a charity case for the board to feel good about themselves.” Keith sucks in a breath. “Then he said it was good my dad couldn’t see me now, and I punched him. Then I dragged him down and sat on him, and punched him again and again. They had to pull me off him.” 

Keith drags a hand through his hair. “And so they expelled me. The one place I wanted to be, the thing I’d been working toward my whole life, turned out not to want me at all. I never should have been there, and so they pushed me out.” He turns to Shiro then, long fingers still wrapped around his mug and his face open and honest. “I can’t really blame them, though - they didn’t want me there, but I’m the one who failed. I had my dream in my hands and I threw it away, all because I was a stupid kid who couldn’t control my temper, couldn’t follow their dumb rules.” He shrugs his shoulders. “So, here I am. It probably never would have worked out in the long run anyway - I didn’t belong there, it was obvious to everyone but me.”

“Keith,” Shiro says, and reaches out to set a hand on Keith’s shoulder. When it’s not shrugged off, he reaches up to set his tea mug on the top shelf next to the certificate, and pulls Keith in against his chest. “I’m so sorry.”

“It’s okay,” Keith mumbles against his shirt front. “It was a long time ago. You, though,” he pulls back just a little, staying within the circle of Shiro’s arms, “you should go back and apologize to them. I bet they’ll give you your job back if you asked nicely. Just tell them you’ve been under a lot of stress, they’ll give in.”

“No, Keith,” Shiro shakes his head firmly, “I’m not going back. Not if you don’t go with me, and if you don’t want to…” he shrugs. “Listen, Keith... all I want is to be with you. I know what we have is new, and if you tell me to go, I’ll go, but,” Keith’s fingers tighten on his own, so he plunges ahead. “But I want… I want everything with you.”

Keith’s eyes are huge, his body still as he absorbs Shiro’s words. 

“Shiro,” he says finally, his fingers twitching in Shiro’s grasp. “You can’t give up dance for me. I can’t ask you to do that.”

“You’re not,” Shiro tells him, “I’m making a choice. I love dance; I always have. But,” he exhales shakily and holds tight to Keith’s fingers as he watches his face. “Keith, I love you more. And I’d rather be here, or anywhere,  _ with  _ you than at the academy without you. Do you understand?”

“No,” Keith shakes his head hard, and Shiro can see tears standing in his eyes. “No, Shiro, I don’t understand. I don’t understand why you… why you would…” tears are standing in his eyes, and the light in the room fades as holds Keith close against him. Keith presses into his embrace willingly, shoving his face hard into Shiro’s shoulder. “ _ Why _ are you here, Shiro?” he asks again, his tone nearly begging.

Shiro cradles him close, rubbing his face against the top of Keith’s hair, his head a warm and welcome weight in the curve of Shiro’s neck. Shiro can smell him, his generic shampoo overlain with the scent of dust and sweat, and it smells more like home than anything Shiro’s ever encountered. 

“I’m here,” he says, his own voice thick, “because I love you, Keith. Because you’re everything.”

\--

Shiro wakes in the morning to sun streaming in through old, faded floral curtains. It’s warm, the promise of a hot day hanging in the air, and Keith appears in the doorway with a smile and bedhead to reach over with one long leg and kick at his foot.

“C’mon, sleepy,” he says with the faintest of smiles. “Get up. We’ve got a long drive ahead of us.”

 


	8. we're both of us beneath our love, we're both of us above. dance me to the end of love.

Keith steps off stage, panting and covered in sweat, and Shiro sweeps him into his arms, pulling Keith against his chest and pressing a kiss to his messy hair even as Keith drags in huge lungfuls of air next to his ear.

“God, Keith,” he whispers against the echoing announcement of the final performer, “you were  _ amazing _ . Absolutely incredible.”

Keith doesn’t answer, but he does pull back enough to smile up at Shiro, kissing him firmly on the mouth before turning in his arms to face the stage. They’re hidden by the curtains, but they have a good view of the next dancer, and Shiro can feel Keith stiffen against him as he realizes who it is, and Shiro tightens his hold in an effort at reassurance. Shiro had seen the name in the sign-up list before the programs were printed, but hadn’t registered the personal significance - after all, Lotor has worked with this particular dancer on and off for a couple years now; it wasn’t a surprise to Shiro, and Shiro was far more concerned with the fact that it’s Lotor’s work which will be leaving the final impression for the judges. But now…

“You ok?” Shiro keeps his voice low, pitched into Keith’s ear, and Keith just nods, his body still tight against Shiro’s, muscles locked together in tension. 

Onstage, the music starts, something strange and discordant, and James takes his first steps. He’s good, there’s no question about it, but there’s a chilly precision to his moves that Shiro has always found lacking, perhaps because it’s too close to how his own dancing has been described: technically very proficient, but without enough soul. Regardless, it makes for an interesting match between Lotor, whose avant-garde work might seem sloppy and ill-considered with a dancer who couldn’t execute the moves perfectly, but instead is used by James to create another world on stage, a whimsical and vaguely sinister fantasia of places only dreamed. 

Shiro feels like he holds his breath for the entire four and a half minute piece, and only exhales at the end when thunderous applause erupts from the audience and James smiles and takes a careful bow. 

Keith slumps against him. “He did it,” Keith says, and Shiro shakes his head hard, even as he feels his gut twist with the same deep fear. 

“No, Keith, you were amazing. James was good, but that doesn’t negate what you did out there.” Shiro keeps his voice calm, desperately trying not to betray his own inward panic. “The judges will have already scored your performance; we’ll just have to see what the verdict is.”

Keith doesn’t respond, just leans against him, and Shiro forces himself to keep breathing. 

He forces himself to keep breathing, and then does it all over again in the next minute, and in the minute after that. The judges are conferring heatedly at their table, he can see them from where they stand lost in the heavy curtains as they argue and wave their clipboards. Surely this is taking an abnormally long time? Usually it’s immediately evident which of the acts won, and on the very rare occasions that there is a dispute, it’s settled quickly. But this is going on five minutes now, and Shiro can feel the panic rising in the back of his throat.

The crowd is growing restless, and Keith is facing stubbornly forward, his knuckles white where his hands are fisted at his sides. Shiro shifts restlessly, trying not to make eye contact with Lotor on the opposite side of the stage where he stands with his arms folded and his foot tapping.

It’s a solid ten minutes before Sam Holt finally takes the microphone and advances to the stage, an apologetic look on his face. He climbs the stairs and stands, gesturing at the wings.

“Can all of our choreographers and competitors take the stage please? Quickly, if you don’t mind, thank you!”

The groups file out, and the tension in everyone is clear- dancers are side-eyeing each other while choreographers are biting their lips. They shuffle quietly into a line, taking positions without comment as they await the verdict. 

“Thank you,” Sam clears his throat. “Now, as we all know, we are here to announce the winner of the first annual Galaxy Dance Company Choreography Competition. So, without further ado, can I have the prizes, please?”

A pair of first year students scuttle forward, setting several trophies and three bouquets on the edge of the stage. Sam reaches down and picks up the smallest two of the gold-lacquered cups. 

“First of all, I’d like to recognize our finalist and our first prize Junior Choreographers - these prizes are to honor our student entrants, and let me just say how impressed I am with the quality of work we’ve seen this afternoon!” He pauses, beaming, and the crowd cheers. “Our finalist today is Ina Leifsdottir, who choreographed and danced her own piece,  _ Flight at 3000 Feet Altitude _ . Very well done!”

A tall, pale dancer steps forward, and takes the trophy, bowing quickly and stepping back. 

“And our winner of the Junior category today is Nadia Rizavi, for her piece entitled “ _ MFE _ ”, danced by herself, Ina Leifsdotter, and Ryan Kinkade. Congratulations, Nadia!”

Nadia is one of Shiro’s students, a rather exceptional one in fact, and he applauds politely, trying to find the piece of himself that he knows is happy for her, but he can’t push past his own building anxiety. Judging by the way that Keith is holding perfectly still beside him, he’s not the only one silently dying on stage. 

Sam picks up a bouquet and trophy from the edge of the stage and turns to face the crowd. “For our third place finish in our Senior Choreography division, I’d like to acknowledge the sheer size and spectacle of this group - I’ve never seen anything like it!” He laughs, and the crowd buzzes excitedly. “Veronica McClain, please step forward to accept this trophy for your piece  _ Paladins of Voltron, _ and dancers Lance McClain, Hunk Garret, Katie Holt, Romelle Altea, and Allura Alforson, please take a bow!”

Shiro applauds again as the dancers step forward, but the sound is like white noise in his head, the thud of his heart drowning out any additional input. He breathes slowly, willing himself to stay in the moment.

“And now,” Sam Holt picks up the remaining two bouquets, juggling them and the mic carefully. “I’m afraid we have a bit of an unusual situation! Takashi Shirogane and Lotor Zarquardson, can you please step forward?”

It takes a sharp poke in his ribs from Keith before Shiro registers his name, and he steps forward automatically, holding his arms out for the flowers which Sam Holt hands him. He catches a glimpse of Lotor looking as confused as he, and it’s somehow reassuring to see that regal mask slightly cracked, a hint of the human shining through from beneath. 

“In an unexpected turn of events, we have a dead tie for winner of this competition!” The crowd goes utterly silent, and all Shiro can hear is the roaring of blood in his ears. “Therefore, we are happy to present to you our co-winners of our First Annual Galaxy Dance Company Choreography Competition, Lotor Zarquardson and Takashi Shirogane, for their respective performances  _ Oriande  _ and  _ White Lion _ !” 

Sam Holt takes each of them by the hand and lifts their arms up high, the crowd applauding wildly as Shiro blinks out into the lights. He can hear Keith behind him, a confused, “wait, they can’t…” before his voice goes quiet in the overwhelming din.

"However,” Sam goes on, bringing Shiro and Lotor’s arms down, “I’m afraid there is a complication. While we are happy to declare both choreographers as co-winners of the competition, the first prize is a position as choreographer here at Galaxy Academy, and I’m afraid that there is, in fact, only one of those.” The audience murmurs, and Shiro can hear the assembled dancers behind him whispering furiously. “So - oh, excuse me, James Griffin and Keith Kogane, can you also please step forward?”

There’s a brief shuffle as Keith and James make their ways forward, coming to stand next to Shiro and Lotor, respectively. Shiro can’t bring himself to turn and look at Keith’s face, doesn’t want to know what expression is written there when all he wants is to reach out with comfort and reassurance he can’t currently give. 

“So, we have decided that we will ask our two choreographers to show us a different piece at this time tomorrow. This way we hope to break the tie, and give a firm decision as to who should receive the top prize.” Shiro opens his mouth, but no words come out, and the audience shuffles in confusion. Sam Holt turns to the dancers. “James and Keith, will you agree to perform another piece by your choreographers for the judges in twenty four hours?”

James answers first, his “sure” a little questioning, but still firm, and when Sam turns to Keith, Keith gives him a tight nod. Shiro lets out a breath he didn’t know he was holding, but then Sam turns to him. “Shiro and Lotor, do you agree to have this tie broken by the judges on the basis of a piece of your composition performed at this time tomorrow?”

“Of course,” Lotor answers smoothly, and Shiro manages  a “yes, sir,” when the microphone is pointed at him.

“And there we have it!” Sam turns to the crowd again. “Thank you for your attendance at the First Annual Galaxy Dance Company Choreography Competition, and for all your support of our participants and contestants! Please return tomorrow if you are able for our tiebreaker round, and have a safe drive home!” He turns to the dancers. “Thank you again for your participation in this event, and congratulations to all of our winners!” He sets the mic down and leads the audience in a round of applause, and Shiro brings his hands together over and over again until they are allowed to file silently off the stage.

\--

An hour later later, after the riot of confused congratulations and curious questions and unending speculation from his friends, after the silent and apprehensive drive home, Shiro unlocks the door to his apartment and steps inside, toeing off his shoes and dropping his jacket as Keith closes the door silently behind him. Shiro starts to head toward the couch, but Keith catches him by his sleeve and pulls him toward the stairs. 

“C’mon,” Keith tells him, “we have twenty three hours left.”

Shiro doesn’t know how to process it, but he obediently follows Keith up the stairs to his dance room, the empty, hollow space reflecting the sensations of his empty and hollow mind, all thought and feeling washed away to leave nothing but a sunny, echoing void.

Keith strips across from him, pulling off his track pants to reveal his costume from the performance, black tights with satin flames climbing his legs to a scarlet leotard that culminates in jagged orange sleeves.

“Come on, Shiro,” Keith tells him again, crossing to where Shiro stands motionless, watching Keith’s movements and the way the subtle sequins of his costume catch the light and cast tiny rainbows dancing around the room. “How are we going to beat them? What have you got?”

“I don’t,” Shiro starts, licks his lips and wipes his palms down his t-shirt. “Keith, I don’t think I have anything.”

“Bullshit,” Keith  says, turning on the speakers and connecting the sound system. “You’ve got  _ something _ . What have you been working on?”

“You just danced it,” Shiro says with a helpless laugh. He drags a hand through his hair and shakes his head, hoping to jog a thought, an idea, anything loose in his blanked-out brain. “The thing I’ve been working on, that was it.”

Keith reaches out for him and Shiro goes, letting himself be reeled in until they’re chest to chest. Keith’s beautiful eyes are calm, his face reassuring. Shiro wants to lose himself here, in the space between Keith’s heartbeats.

“What about that piece we did together?”

Shiro frowns. “You mean the one from months ago? That was fun, but it wasn’t competition caliber.”

“Could you do something like it?”

“I…” Shiro thinks about it, tries to silence his looming anxiety and picture it. Keith moving across the floor to something slow, using the space to express something different than what they had put out there today. “Maybe. But we’d have to find someone else to dance it with you.”

“No.” Keith’s voice is as firm as his hands are gentle as they cup Shiro’s face. “No. Write it, and we’ll dance it together.”

“It won’t be as good,” Shiro warns, “I’ll bring us down.”

“You won’t,” Keith tells him, steady as an anchor in a storm. “I’ll catch you.” His grip on Shiro is the only thing Shiro can feel, his eyes dark and deep as he licks his lips and holds Shiro’s gaze. “Shiro, I love you. I don’t want to dance with anyone but you.”

Shiro breathes out hard, closing his eyes and bringing their foreheads together.

“Okay,” he says, breathing deep as his heart cracks open in his chest. “I love you, too.”

\--

The routine open with them standing, wrapped in each other’s arms as the music begins. The first notes play, and then they step into the image of a waltz, taking an elegant turn until Keith kicks high on one side, then the other, letting Shiro catch his ankle and pause, holding him for a heartbeat in a vertical split. Shiro pushes him free to spin out, his back arching and arms open as his head tips back. He spins beautifully, waiting till Shiro reaches an arm to catch him and pull him back in as Keith reaches for him in turn, curling his hands around Shiro’s neck for a stolen moment of intimacy before he lets Shiro turn him and lift him high over head. Keith’s long, lean form curves back above Shiro’s extended arms until Shiro settles him gently on the floor again, knees bent and arms already moving to the next pose. 

Keith extends, tilting sideways to catch an arm around Shiro’s shoulder as his free leg rises to the ceiling, then comes down across Shiro’s arm as Shiro sinks low, allowing Keith to settle seated high on Shiro’s shoulder as Shiro rises again, lifting Keith into the air and carrying him for a few steps. The verse changes into the chorus and Keith leans backward in a controlled fall across Shiro’s back, allowing Shiro to catch him under the arms and swing him forward in a low spin, his long legs stretched out in perfect parallel, barely grazing the floor. There’s no pause before Keith uses Shiro’s arm to pull himself back up, turning to follow Shiro, arms reaching, as Shiro steps swiftly backward, burying his face in one of Keith’s outstretched palms for a breath as the music changes. 

The chorus ends and Shiro slides under Keith’s outstretched arms as they are flung wide, catching Keith with his hands around Keith’s waist and turning him over and over as he pivots around one leg before Shiro turns his back and links their arms, using his momentum to swing Keith around in circles, his head resting on the back of Shiro’s neck. The break transitions them easily into a mirrored sequence as they leap in unison and land, settling into synchronized turns that finish with them grasping hands to pull each other into high-leg rolls which propel Keith into a leap. He’s a miracle in the air, feet perfectly pointed, hands beautifully articulated, long neck arched as he throws his head back. 

Shiro grabs Keith from the air with one arm around his waist and another at his front knee, holding him in position for a long moment before setting him slowly on the floor. The chorus rises again and they step into a simulation of ballroom steps, moving rapidly across the floor with arms outstretched before Shiro rolls Keith up onto his shoulders. Keith’s limbs still splay wide as Shiro holds him balanced across the back of his neck with one arm around Keith’s ribcage and the other gripping the inside of his thigh turns and turns, letting the wind rush past them as Keith reaches to his full length before curling into a dismount over Shiro’s shoulder to the front, small against Shiro’s broad chest. 

Keith’s face is cradled briefly against Shiro’s throat as he lands on the floor, both of Shiro’s arms pulling him close only to push him away, lifting as Keith leaps into a high pose with Shiro’s hand at his armpit, his arm reaching for the heavens even as Keith’s face stays turned toward him. He lands and they grab hands again, pulling closer for a final step sequence that mimics a slow chase and follow, Keith leading as Shiro imitates him, close and tender with the flow of the music. They move into and out from each other, never losing the clasp of their hands, pulling closer and closer into each other’s orbits before breaking free at last for one last set of mirrored spins, arms up in perfect repetition. 

They end their turns as the final chorus finishes, and Keith steps to Shiro to be lifted, held again high above Shiro’s head but facing him this time, lowering slowly back to the floor as the last strains of the music fade away and they close their arms around each other, breathing hard.

The moon is high in the sky, the light of it illuminating their shapes in the mirror nearly as much as the small lamp that glows determinedly in the corner. Shiro weaves his fingers into the damp, sweaty locks of Keith’s hair and kisses him fiercely, holding him close for a long moment before Keith pulls back with a laugh.

He doesn’t go far, bringing their foreheads together as they breathe. 

“That’s it, huh.” 

It’s not a question, not really, but Shiro nods against him anyway.

“That’s it,” he says, and this time it’s Keith kissing him.

\--

The applause as the music fades away is thunderous in spite of the smaller crowd, and it only gets louder as Shiro throws caution to the wind and bends his head to kiss Keith soundly. There’s a throat-clearing sound from the judges table, and Shiro pulls away, eyes still on Keith, and guides them both to the side of the stage.

“Thank you, gentlemen,” Sam Holt says with a smile. “That was lovely. Now, if we can have Lotor and James join you on the stage please? Good, thank you. Please hold while the judges come to a decision.”

Shiro’s still breathing hard, and he can feel Keith’s pulse racing where he’s pressed up against Shiro’s side. James looks a little fresher on the other side of the stage, having had a few minutes to cool down while Keith and Shiro danced, his hair only slightly disheveled and his breathing regular even as they stand waiting for the verdict that will decide their fates. Lotor is as serene and implacable as ever, and well he should be, Shiro thinks, given the piece James had performed.

The truth is, Shiro can admit, that Lotor’s piece was very, very good. But somehow today Shiro can’t find it within himself to care. Dancing with Keith, dancing with Keith the way they just did, it transforms him. It reminds him why he ever wanted to dance in the first place,  takes him back to the feeling he had as a child of watching dancers seemingly fly onstage . Even if he loses, he thinks, even if they both lose and Keith somehow is not admitted to the corps, as long as they can dance together, Shiro will be grateful. 

His arm tightens around Keith, who looks up at him questioningly, but Shiro just shakes his head and mouths the words  _ thank you _ , making Keith twitch an eyebrow and smile before turning to face forward.

The minutes tick by, and Shiro can see James begin to shift side to side. The judges are still debating, and the audience, small as it is, is growing restless. Finally Sam pulls free and makes his way up to the stage, taking the steps and walking to the center.

“My dear friends and family,” he begins, and Shiro’s stomach remembers how to have butterflies. All he wants, he thinks to himself, is for Keith to have his chance at the corps. If Lotor beats him, he can’t bring himself to care, so long as Keith is happy. “Thank you so much for coming out today, and for being here to witness two such incredible performances.”

Sam pauses, and the audience claps politely. 

“We have a bit of an unorthodox outcome here today, so I’ll thank you for bearing with me as I try to keep all of this straight!” Keith shifts nervously beside him and Shiro bites his lip. Even a head-to-head match-up wasn’t enough for a clear decision? What could they possibly be going to do?

“First of all,” he turns to the dancers, “James and Keith, thank you for your performances here today. Exceptional, both of you, really.” He applauds and the crowd goes wild as Keith and James both step forward for brief bows. “That said, we’ve decided to award the first prize money to Keith Kogane, in recognition both of his artistry today and his outstanding performance yesterday. Keith,” Sam holds out a hand with a check in it, and Shiro sets a hand on Keith’s shoulder to nudge him forward. “Congratulations.”

“Um. Thank you?” Keith says into the mic, looking a little shell shocked, but Sam Holt isn’t done yet, reaching out to hold Keith in place by the bicep as he starts to step back. “Furthermore, the board would like to officially offer you a position in the Galaxy Garrison dance corps, beginning this fall. What do you say?”

Keith is silent for a long breath, then suddenly the silence is broken by a very familiar voice from the crowd. “Say  _ yes _ , you idiot!” Pidge shouts, and the audience cracks up as one, “Say yes!”

“Um, yes. Thank you.” Keith turns to shake Sam’s hand, and the audience cheers wildly as he steps back to stand next to Shiro. He turns to catch Shiro’s eye, and Shiro can’t help but wrap his arms around Keith, laughing delightedly as Keith clutches him back, his whole body shaking. 

“You did it, Keith!” Shiro holds him tight, then steps back, holding him by the shoulders. “I knew you could.” 

“Next,” Sam Holt says pointedly, and Shiro turns to face front again, his fingers clutching tightly to Keith’s own, “we have the business of the first place finish for choreography, and the awarding of our position of Choreographer for the Galaxy Academy. Lotor and Shiro, if you would step forward please.”

Shiro steps forward, aware of Lotor doing the same out of the corner of his eye.

“First, let me say how truly impressed the judges were with all four pieces,” Sam says, and the judges applaud from their table halfway up the audience section, the crowd joining them. “And let me also say that I very much hope to see more work from both of you. However, I’m afraid we really can only pick one winner, and so I’d like to ask you all to give a round of applause to Lotor Zarquardson, our newest Galaxy Academy Choreographer and first place winner of our First Annual Galaxy Academy Choreography Competition!”

Sam begins to applaud, and the crowd joins him. Lotor looks genuinely taken aback, shaking Sam’s hand with a surprised look on his face. Shiro steps forward as Sam releases him, reaching out to take Lotor’s hand in his own and shake it, clapping him on the shoulder. 

“Well done,” he says sincerely, “your pieces were amazing. I look forward to seeing what you do next.” 

“Thank you, Shiro,” Lotor answers, clasping Shiro’s hand within both of his own, “I truly expected you to win. I had no idea you had that level of composition within you.” He hesitates, still hanging on to Shiro’s hand as the applause starts to fade. “Perhaps we can work together sometime,” he says, and Shiro just nods. 

“I’d like that.”

“Thank you, gentlemen,” Sam says as the audience rustles, “very gracious of you both. And now, if you can stay seated for just one more minute, we have a final announcement.”

Shiro steps back into line, taking the hand Keith offers him. The look on Keith’s face is sad, but Shiro just smiles at him - he’s disappointed not to have won purely on account of never liking to lose, but knowing that Keith will be dancing with the corps come fall means more to him than any staff position he could have been offered. He smiles broadly at Keith, bringing his hand up to kiss Keith’s knuckles as Sam goes on.

“Takashi Shirogane,” he begins, and Shiro’s head snaps up in attention, “while we did not see fit to award you the post of choreographer, we did not want to leave your work or your frankly outstanding performance here today unrecognized.” 

Shiro can feel his mouth open, but he closes it again, unsure where this could possibly be going. Keith’s got his fingers in a strangle grip, bouncing Shiro’s hand in time with his pulse.

“Shiro,” Sam turns to him, “we would also like to offer you a position in the corps you were forced to leave three years ago under such unfortunate circumstances. Your performance here today has shown that you have more than earned your spot, and we would love to have you back.” Sam is beaming at him as he sets a hand on Shiro’s shoulder. “What do you say, son?”

Shiro’s mind goes blank, but Keith shoves an elbow in his side and hisses into his ear. “Say yes, Shiro! Say yes!!”

Shiro reaches out to shake Sam’s hand, nodding, then turns to Keith, catching Keith’s face in his hands and holding his gaze.

“Yes,” he whispers, and the crowd goes wild.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I did a lot of dance as a kid, so I do have a background for it, but I quit dancing much after my first year of college (too poor, too busy), and I really only ever did ballet seriously, so there are definitely some hand-wavy bits in here. Just... picture Shiro and Keith dancing and try not to think too hard about it. 
> 
> If you need some inspiration, please see the following:
> 
> [Keith dancing on his own](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=c-tW0CkvdDI)  
> [The tango](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=kkjBLmM6KEg)  
> [The private duet](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ofNuCu5nCyE)  
> The final duet: [this](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=zMSE-bn5aQE) mixed with [this](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=E2g-StPzyX4)
> 
> Please find me on twitter or tumblr or pillowfort @zjofierose and scream at me about sheith in tights!
> 
> comments are love, and will be loved in return. <3


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